Redmond Diaries -the third year
by katherine-with-a-k
Summary: Now it's getting complicated...
1. Chapter XXI

**Ok, wow! That I was not expecting. The response of my dreams. I have published a few other stories here but I have never ever _ever_ had a reviews like that. It was the best feeling of my writerly life and I thank you all for every single world you wrote. I've read over them carefully, thought about it from every angle -and am incredibly grateful for all the new ideas you shared with me. There's nothing more for me to say except I could never _not_ write RD3 now (and RD4? That will be trickier but what I hope to do is steal the entries about that strange little romance at the end and use it for other purposes -any ideas, please share!) Well, I'd best get on with it then :o)**

**REDMOND DIARIES -The third year**

**Chapter XXI -Roses of Yesterday**

_**with love and gratitude to L.M.M. and everyone who has read this story so far, I will try even harder to give you something courageous  
**_

**… … …**

**_Wednesday, 5th May, 1885 ~Mount Holly, Bolingbroke_**

Dear Ady,

Don't think badly of me. I can't bear to add you to that growing list, and long for a soft place to fall. You'll be that for me, won't you? I suppose you have been waiting, pages outstretched, to do just that. It is only that I haven't felt much like writing lately. Besides which, Phil won't let me have the tiniest moment to myself. I think she is afraid to let me brood, little understanding that a person needs a good brood now and then. It is those who don't, those who go on as though nothing has happened that become so stretched thin with the effort of it all. I _will_ brood, I will dive into your rose scented pages and envelope myself in deepest melancholy ~though I suspect I shall only be given an hour to do so before I am pulled away for yet another grand escapade.

Mount Holly is magical. The perfect dwelling to produce a child who would one day become that Phil-o-the-wisp I love so well. Like her own nonsensical self this place feels divided in two. Her father's part of the house smells of old leather and fresh tobacco, and is lined with the most remarkable library. Not only his rooms but along endless hallways. And they are endless, Ady ~I believe I could fit _two_ Green Gables within this old pile and still have space for Patty's Place! Where there are no nooks to house books there are endless artworks, photographs and curios smothering the dark tendrilled wallpaper. You sense such history here. Phil could float through any portion of that part of the house and always expect to see her own dimples and curls memorialised in the images of some ancient matron or great-great aunt.

I try to imagine what it would be like to see my own face looking back at me, through the eyes of my granny or my third cousin. But I can't. All I ever see is plain Anne Shirley. Not that I mind being me, Ady. It is only I have the sensation of coming to the end of a sentence and there being nothing else to say. As though every day I am looking at a full-stop, knowing nothing, _nothing,_ will come after it.

You see, I told you I was in a brooding mood. Phil's mother is the brooding sort, not that you could predict that by wandering through her part of the house. It's a dazzling display of the latest and best, the newest textiles, the most modish of furnishings, and _such_ unconventional music. Each morning I awake to the sound of her beating down upon her grand piano ~of course they have more than one. Mrs Gordon's is _white._ Imagine, Ady, a white piano! And then listen out for the sound of Mr Gordon thumping up the stairs to demand she 'cease that discordant racket!' I wonder what the man would do if he woke one morning and didn't hear it. Oh, he would miss it ~I _know_ he would.

The particular role Phil has defined for herself, as youngest child and only daughter, is to mix up these two worlds as thoroughly as possible. Leaving Mrs Gordon's sheet music in the library, or abandoning one of Mr Gordon's first editions in the gazebo. Yesterday I saw her carrying a malevolent looking orchid into the smoking room. I think she is wanting to leave them reminders of each other. It doesn't occur to the little goose that she is also causing extra work for the servants, who always get called to put everything back.

There is one maidservant, Cora, who I like very much. Phil is mad for her and frequently laments that we cannot squeeze her into some corner of Patty's Place. Where everyone else in Mount Holly seems eternally _on ~_like all those electric lights~ Cora appears like a flickery sprite. I find myself lingering in corners with her whenever the house is crammed with guests. And that is more often than not. Phil has orchestrated what she describes as a 'jamboree' for my sole delectation, determined to show me such a time. Oh, and I could have adored it. Could have drunk it down to the last top hat and turquoise plume, if only~

I left Phil's address with Jimsie, who has once again decided to stay on at Patty's Place ~for the cats' sake, of course~ in case anyone should want to write to me. But now that I am to leave in three days I suspect any mail will be sent straight to Green Gables. How I miss that little house, miss Avonlea, the Island. I can scarcely believe that at one time I thought I had outgrown her. What a self important little prig I was. When all anyone ever did was feel proud of me.

I suppose I am well thought of in Bolingbroke, too. Phil and her little 'Island Rose' have become the sensation she always said we would be. All her chums ~and all her victims~ are attentive and charming and fun. The infamous Alec and Alonzo especially. You know Ady, I have caught myself wondering more than once what it is they _do_ when they are not wooing that girl. They never have obligations that pull them away, or demands made of their time. They don't seem to want to do anything else but dance attendance upon Philippa Gordon. I can't help but think of other people who are not one tenth as rich and yet manage to cram their lives with so much more. Who burn with ambition, and dedicate themselves to _sucking the marrow out of life! _Isn't that a delicious phrase, Ady? I found it in a little tome tucked under Mrs Gordon's crystal ashtray. The author seems to know how much beauty lives in the world ~if we only have eyes to see.

I am about to see a place that probably has little beauty for anyone but me. A simple yellow cottage that has lived in my heart my whole life. Tomorrow that house and I will renew our acquaintance once more. Oh, the coach has arrived, I can see one, two, three... _six_ horses attached to it! I must go, Ady, but I promise I shan't be such a stranger to you anymore.

**… … …**

_**Thursday 6th May, Home Sweetish Home  
**_

_**The Ochre Notebook**_

Well if it isn't love, pray tell what _is_ it? Thank goodness Queen Anne is more than one girl, because frankly some of them visiting here have been a bit of a bore. Thankfully the livelier sort make an appearance sooner or later -but really, some days Anne is not half as much fun as I hoped. I am beginning to suspect she made up her mind not to enjoy herself just to prove a point -that nothing in Bolingbroke could _ever_ compare to that blessed Island of hers! Or rather those _of_ the Island.

Wretched little cat rescuer. Gilbert Blythe will likely be pining himself to nothing over her. Yet she would have it that it's only Gilbert's friendship she misses. Friendship! If I felt even a smidge of what Anne feels for one of my victims I should marry him the very next day. I suppose being growed up on P.E.I. she can't help but do things on a grand scale. All that rich, red earth must make for great big sentimental fools as well great big potatoes!

Well, it is all about to become very small, very quickly. We are off to some unheard of part of Bolingbroke this afternoon to visit the little burrow where the poor urchin was orphaned. I can't say I am much looking forward to the prospect. Not only because I happen to know the roads are dreadful in that part of town, but also because I fear it will make Anne even more wistful. Those big grey eyes of hers, so limpid and starry. The amount of handkerchiefs that have been thrust her way -who knew broken hearts were so becoming? If only she _would_ cry. But instead she is on her very best behaviour, determined not to let me down, and I am beginning to hate her for it. That is perhaps too Ochre-ish even for this notebook. The person I really detest is Mr Blythe. Not only for souring the sweetest honey in all the world, but for souring _my_ jamboree.

Why oh why did he have to go and propose _now?_ Then again is not the real mystery how he waited as long as did. The word 'besotted' has been fairly well etched onto his forehead since the first day I met him. I think I will demand that Alec and Alonzo do the same. It would save me the trouble of having to choose either of them then, for I could hardly marry someone with a tattooed face!

**_The Rose Notebook_**

Do you know what I really wish is that I could love someone the way Anne does_._

**… … …**

_**Thursday, 6th May ~Mount Holly, Bolingbroke**_

I'm not an orphan anymore, Ady. I said goodbye to that girl today.

I am found.

I am found.

I am found.

So why is it I still feel so lost? I believe all this living at Mount Holly is turning me into Phil. Not that I mind, leastways not today. Today she was a perfect little lamb. I knew she had a thousand other things she would rather be doing. But instead she drove me ~by herself, too~ all the way to a little dusty street to find a little dusty house, and it was... Oh, it was a dream come real.

A sunny clapboard cottage with gauzy white curtains and lilacs round the gate. I could _see_ Mother standing there. See her hand raised over her eyes, looking out through empurpled blooms waiting for Father to return each evening. I could see Father jump the picket fence and sweep her up in his arms and twirl her round the lavender beds. Could see him lay kisses on her pregnant belly as she lay kisses on his soft red hair. I heard them, I know I did. And I know I _always_ shall now because I have been given the most miraculous gift.

Letters! A dozen of them. Written to each other ~I could barely speak on the return journey. After twenty years to have such a treasure still waiting for me. I feel beyond rich, Ady. I feel blessed.

_You won't scold me, Walter, not you, when I tell you I am writing this by a crimson sun that pours in through our window. How I love the feel of red light on my skin, how it makes me think of you._

_Only four more days, my darling, until I can take you in my arms again. I imagine your belly has become so much bigger, was there ever a more satisfying embrace than when I hold you and our child all at once?_

_I decided on the green sprig muslin after all ~when I was so sure I would choose the blue. But as I walked into the haberdashers I suddenly knew that our baby was meant for green things._

_Of course, you may have the choosing of the name if we have a girl ~but I must insist on the e._

_Yours till forever, Bertha_

_Forever yours, Walter_

I went to the graveyard soon after and placed my flowers on their grave. Nothing showy or strained, just some lily of the valley, but how right they looked by the headstone. 'These are from Anne', I told them, 'your Anne with an e.' I thought I would say more, Phil had tiptoed to the carriage to wait for me, but the words wouldn't come. Instead I imagined living in that dusty little house on that dusty little street. Imagined brothers and sisters just as freckled and red haired as I was. Imagined my parents growing me on dreams they once had for themselves. And finding myself at Redmond, just as determined, ambitious and foolish as ever. Imagining... imagining... Those words of Phil's taunting me, and I wondered if I had lived this other life would I better understand the mystery of love?

I sat in the long grass, watching the sun cut shadows into their names. The smell of lilies and the memory of lilacs playing inside me like a song, when they spoke to me. Mother and Father, as though they sat close by my side.

_You have always known love_, they whispered. _You were borne of it, you are made of it, and you will go on discovering it._

Suddenly I knew I couldn't wait. I had to go home. Not in two days but the very next morning. I ached for home. For the Island and Green Gables and Marilla. For Rachel and the twins and Diana and ~everyone else. Ached for it as I never had. Home. Home like a heartbeat, like a road.

How I love the feel of red earth under my feet, how it makes me think of you all.

**… … …**

***Phil's words being that famous phrase, "You don't know love when you see it. You've tricked something out with your imagination that you think love, and you expect the real thing to look like that." **

**And now it's back to Avonlea, where Mrs Blythe is making Anne helluva uncomfortable, and we find out just which button Fred-Fred and Di-Di are up to...  
**


	2. Chapter XXII

**Hello! Got writing fever again :o) The next two chapters in Anne of the Island involve much mooching about by Anne (but also some lovely stuff about fairytales and rock people) What I've decided to do is combine the feel of both those chapters into one, so that I can follow a different thread in the next chapter. Sorry no Fred-Fred and Di-Di action, but I hope you still enjoy them. As you seemed to like the letters in the last chapter, I decided to try my hand at writing this whole chapter as a series of letters to Gilbert.  
**

**Chapter XXII -Spring and Anne return to Green Gables**

**_June 1st, Maples, Avonlea_**

_Gil,_

_How you holding up? Your missed on this end of the Island. By all I am sure._

_About that set back, what do you say to reconsidering, you being my best man. Cant think of another fellow I would want to stand up with me, and am rather wanting to please myself than please the bridesmaid to be honest. Not mentioned this to Diana, she doesnt know a thing about it. Besides which theres still another year till then. You might get hitched before I do._

_To that end let me advise you, next time you set your cap be quick about it. All this waiting aint good for a man. Neither is the rust on that bit of wheat I put down in April. All that grind come to nothing. Looking at a burn back, which means resting that stretch of earth and an even smaller harvest. What was that your uncle used on his back field? Was it cow horn? His corns coming up like Mrs Harmon Andrews nose -word is theres some rich fellow sniffing round Jane. And they say the world has used up all its miracles. _

_Still hoping you get yours, ol boy.  
_

_Best etc,_

_Fred_

**… … …**

**_June 4th, Orchard Slope, Avonlea, 1885_**

_Dear Gilbert_

_Congratulations on getting top of your class! You and Anne, what a pair! Don't work yourself too hard now. Anne came back to us quite worn out, all quiet and dreamy ~you know how she gets. Perhaps she's thinking up a new story. Do you know anything about it? I would ask her but I suspect I meddled once too often in that province._

_Now you're a writer too! Fred showed me the clipping of the article you wrote for that big Kingsport paper. Did that man really live on nothing but goose livers for twenty years? I happen to know you are in for a big batch of something yourself. Something beginning with a G and a J. Your Mama must have planted out another ten bushes since you left. She does miss you, Gil. Are you writing as often as you should? She was terribly sad you wanted to sell your horse. _

_I should warn you there is someone else in Avonlea who is all upset over you. Minnie-May just cried buckets when your folks came to fetch Domino. I've never seen her so insensed. Maybe it was better that you missed this summer after all. But we sure do miss you, Gil. ALL of us._

_Take care, and write more often. Of course if you're spending your time writing to one particular person I suppose I can overlook it!_

_Love from Fred and yours truly, _

_Diana_

**… … …**

**_June 20th, Palisades, Avonlea_**

_Dearest Gil,_

_That Kingsport rag must be working you to the bone if you never have time for your oldest chums. Susie told Gertie who told me you that you apparently reported some ungodly scandal about a Bluenose who married a goose! Is this what they've got you writing over there? You don't want to drag the Blythe name down, now. Just because you're doing all sorts academically, don't think you can't fall flat on your face. I'm saying this to you as a friend, Gil. I always wanted what was best for you. Always.  
_

_Everyone is still making a fuss about our Rollings Reliable winner. Which goes to show how little has happened since then. You don't know if Anne intends to write another one do you? I only ask so that I can be sure to be out of town -last time was such a bore. Even Anne looks bored, and she thinks birdsong is a major symphony. What have I always said -simple things please simple minds. _

_Speaking of which apparently Billy Andrews is interested in buying your colt. So long, old grey nag! I should advise you against it, however, even though it will be awfully hard to find someone in these parts who would purchase an animal that couldn't earn its keep. What possessed you to buy it in the first place? Such an unlovable, ugly creature. Though it's certainly handsome now I doubt it's as strong, and Nettie Andrews will be wanting a draft horse to get her about. What a weight she put on after having Billy Junior. She's more dumpy than her husband -and that is saying something. _

_How is your cousin? Is he still in N.B? Is his address still 29 Gladhaven Street, do I have that right? Even if I am the last person on your list of people to reply to, be a gentleman and confirm that at least. Because I haven't heard from him for months. You Blythes, you really do try a girl's patience.  
_

_Well, I suppose I must leave this now, you're not the only one I write to, you know. But send me a line or two -when you can spare the time from your goosewife stories, of course- because I care about you, Gil. Deeply._

_The very fondest of regards, _

_Josie_

**… … …**

**_June 22nd, New Line Road, West Grafton_**

_Dear Gil,_

_Worry not, I won't be mentioning April. Though before I continue I should mention I only know the little I do because of Phil, not because of anyone else. And while Phil's discretion may be impossible to rely on, her love for a certain girl is not, so it's not unreasonable to expect she will remain silent. Goodness, a silent Phil. I rather wish she had invited me to Mount Holly instead, what I wouldn't give to see that._

_Don't think that I'm not rather happy, however. Oh, the Island in summer! One week in Avonlea wasn't near long enough, how much you must miss it. I hate to think of you skulking about Kingsport. Phil says it's a perfect graveyard once school is over, excepting all the families, who descend on our beloved parks and gardens as though they were their own. How queer to think that the fountain Millicent Johns fell into after one schnapps too many (actually I think even one schnapps is too many) is the same one that now holds children's sailing boats. Is it as dull as all that? What about this new place Charlie convinced you to sublet, I've heard you're on the fourth floor. Is it wretchedly hot for you up there? I only ask because I am spending a good amount of time in my attic at the moment -we have my four cousins come to stay and it's the only place I can be alone._

_I don't think people who grow up on the cities know what it means to be alone. They see it as some sort of punishment, but I rather think they confuse it with being lonely. I don't know about you but I can feel far more lonely in a crowd that I do on a bare stretch of shore. Not that I get to the shore very often. But I soon shall. When my cousins move on next week I will be going with them, to White Sands. Yes, your old stomping ground. And who do you think will be joining me there, but Stella!_

_You'd think after sharing all year and half a bed with that girl I would be sick of the sight of her, but I'm strangely looking forward to it. In fact I find it hard to sleep at night without hearing her little snuffly noises next to me. Does that make her a kindred spirit -oh, can you please pretend I didn't write that? As fond as I am of you, Gil, I really can't be doing with writing this out again. I expect you'll be hearing from Stella soon. Since I have already broken my word let me add that I haven't mentioned April to her, but once I see my little Maynard it may well come up. Unlike Philippa Gordon, however, you can rely on us without question. _

_Oh, it's too bad. But let's think on better things. Like that murder in Hyatt Place. How much can you tell me about it? It was a shame they didn't give that story to you. I'm sure you long to write a journalistic masterpiece, but make of it what you can. You always do._

_Yours, Priss_

**… … …**

_**June 30. Orchard Sloap. Avonlea**_

_Dear Gilbert Blith_

_Please dont sell Domino. Speshally to Netty Andrews, shes just bound to brake his back. Milty Bolter is buying teeth, rekon I cud get you two dollars or more once mine all fall out. Howsa bout each time I loose a tooth I send the munny to you? Also I have kittens. We cud do a swop? Also my sister wont let you come to her wedding less you let me have Domino._

_Yours inseerly, Minnie-May Barry_

**... ... ...**

**_July 7th, Ripley's Lodge, White Sands_**

_Greetings Gilbert,_

_How are you? Yes that dreaded question. Never fear, you may curse yourself purple from where you are, knowing little Stella won't be able to hear you._

_White Sands is a treat. Sorry to rub salt in the wound but you know I'd be lying if I told you anything else. Of course, the tourists are exasperating -and before you say anything, no I do not consider myself a tourist! You can take a girl out of the Island... don't forget that, Gil._

_Priss is a dear, but she does go on about her old pupils -and yours, and Anne's. Forever walking the Strand exclaiming "Oh my goodness that couldn't be Malcolm Frame, dear me hasn't little Tessa grown, and look at Jim Wilson, I hardly recognised him in long pants!" She does make one feel old. I hardly give my kiddies another thought and I taught them twice as long -perhaps there's something in that. _

_Are you in touch with any of your old lot? I must say we had a few wander up to Priss (the sweet, dimpled, girlish sort) asking how dear Mr Blythe is, and what is he doing now, and how they never had a teacher as wonderful (or I suspect as handsome) as you were. Weren't you pulled up on one or two occasions because of your 'progressive' teaching methods? Muriel Stacey has quite the reputation now. Considering how well you and Anne did you'd think the Board of Education would be wanting to adopt more of her theories rather than throw them out. I am so glad to be out of teaching! I can't believe that Anne is considering making a career of it once her B.A. is got -all her literary ambitions are as ashes in her mouth._

_Notice that I will not pretend that Anne does not exist. Priss practically had me in a headlock trying to make me promise that I would. But I'm too tiny for that beanpole to keep hold of me for long. Besides, you are just going to have to get used to it, dear boy. What is that saying : Man plans and God laughs._

_Well here is another before I go, just for good measure-_

_You will love again._

_Buck up, Gilbert Blythe_

_Stella_

**… … …**

**_15th July, 1884, Sloane House, Sloane Lane, Avonlea, P.E.I._**

_Dear Gilbert,_

_Upon receiving a letter from Pandora Selvidge I was reminded of something I particularly wanted to mention to you, which pertains to certain pencil measurements up the wall where the bed has been positioned. It is possible they have escaped your notice, in which case read no further. If however you had questions about them let me make it clear I was simply charting certain points (those points being in the 5-7 inch range -sometimes 8 I'll have you know) for a building project I was embarking upon. Nothing more than that._

_I would also prefer it if you would refrain from sleeping on your right side so as not to look at those said measurements. It does not sit well on my conscience to know that you should be studying them. I also hope you are heeding my request that you not perform any push-ups or other strenuous activity whilst you stay in my room. As we are no longer in a sharing arrangement I do not think I should have to tolerate your sweat upon my floor._

_Hope you are well. I assume you are expecting me to pass on Anne's regards but I cannot as I never see her. You may pass on my regards to Miss Selvidge. Of course it would be impolite not to pass on your own, just make sure that is all you offer. She is very devoted to me. Extremely devoted._

_Regards, C. Sloane_

**... ... ...**

_**20th July, Allwinds, Avonlea**_

_Dear Gil,_

_Your mother is wanting me to write you, she's under the impression if you see my handwriting on the envelope you're more likely to open it. _

_Used to be we could count on a letter from you every Wednesday, but it's near three weeks since we heard from you, son. It's not like you to act so scattered. I appreciate you want to write to Anne now, and try to reason with Mam that you're not her little lad anymore. But when I tell you she has made up ten dozen batches of gooseberry jam you might understand how set she is on hearing from you._

_She wants to add a post script now. I'll write more another time, I fancy hers will take up the rest of this bit of paper. Before I forget, George's corn is getting to be over fifteen foot tall!_

_Love, Pup_

_Gilbert dear,  
_

_Ignore your father, I merely observed we hadn't heard from you a while. I know you're kept busy -the hours you work at that paper. Which reminds me when did you last see the sunshine? I do wish you might have found work closer to home that you could come over on weekends. Summer's not the same without you, and that's a fact.  
_

_You'll be pleased to know I saw young Anne today. I know the look you'll give me, but I can't resist telling you that whenever I mention your name she goes ten shades of red. Fortunately it suits her. I have attempted to have her over for quilting circle but both times she was obliged to help out at Green Gables. Such a dutiful girl -and those Sloanes say she doesn't know one end of a needle from the other. Sour grapes, I call it. I hear tell Charlie Sloane is courting some little neighbour of yours. Does she seem the Island sort?_

_Now Gilbert there is one thing on my mind, this you selling Domino. We haven't had a hint of interest and I wonder if it isn't Providential. I'm sure we can stretch to his keep. After all we haven't your great big stomach to fill every day now, do we? You made such efforts with the poor creature. I look at him now and can scarce believe it's the same starved beast you bought from that big place up in Kensington. The nips and bruises you got -and the extra mending you caused me! When he struck you that time, when was it '82? '83? I would have sold him for glue the next minute. But you never gave in, and I've always been proud of you for that. Yes, I know I say that about everything you do, don't roll your eyes at me. I also know you want to do your bit for Pup, but the money Domino would bring in is so negligible. People need creatures that can pull ploughs, Gilbert, or at least a cart. That horse is only ever going to be fit for one thing, and that's you, dear. Give it some thought, and write me a line when you can._

_All love to you sweet boy,_

_Mam_

_**... ... ...** _

_**Dorchester Street, Kingsport -July 31st**_

_P.S. Forgot to mention sis is throwing in her place at the Royal College of Music -that didn't last long. The old man is at his wits end, thinking of putting her in Redmond. That being so, Blythe, what do you say to keeping an eye on the little minx? You really are the only fellow I'd trust her with._

_Ronald Stuart_

_**... ... ...**_

**If all those italics are a pain to read please let me know. **

**The 'measurements' and Pandora was a tip of the hat to those of you who likened Charlie to Adrian Mole. Apparently some of you have been missing him -and Miss Josie!- so I hope you enjoyed that little bit of spite ;o) Now what do you say we take another visit to White Sands...**


	3. Chapter XXIII

**Hello once more. The first half of this chapter shouldn't come as too much of a surprise if I am any sort of writer. To head off one particular comment before it is made, yes I know Priscilla and Stella eventually married and had children. But, you know, stuff happens when you're in college -and pretty wonderful stuff at that. If you feel you want to leave a negative comment about this idea that's your right, but to me love is love. And that's what this chapter is about, love between women, in all it's forms :o)**

**CHAPTER XXIII- Paul cannot find the Rock People**

_**Ripley's Lodge ****-August 15th****  
**_

Well Mags,

What an unholy mess. I did everything in my power to prevent this, you know that I did. And now -NOW- when I hadn't seen her for two months, and we are staying in separate hotels, and there are all sorts of family obligations to keep us apart, I am ambushed, swiftly and cruelly. You must really be laughing. Those aren't crickets in the porch eaves, I know very well it's you.

Well, I want you to leave, do you hear me Margaret Mallory? I hate you for being dead, for taking your life and not taking me with you. I want you to go, I want with all that I am for you to go. And take this feeling with you.

Oh, Mags, how could this happen again?

**... ... ...**

_**White Sands Hotel - Saturday 15th August  
**_

_**Priss Report #184  
**_

I know how it happened. We were talking about Anne and Gil, the way we have been every night. We would leave before dessert and meet up by the gelato cart for soft scoops in paper boats before commencing our nightly stroll. Into that stolen time of day when the sun and the clock are no longer on speaking terms; when children are wrangled homeward and lovers claim the shore. None of them ever look at us, or if they do we never receive their indulgent, knowing smiles. To them we are merely two chums at the sea side, missing our beaux, or wishing we had one to miss.

Inevitably we talk about Anne because one couldn't be in that place without hearing her voice enthusing over riches we would otherwise never have seen. A creamy shell like a piece of moon, light on the water like a shattered sun. And sounds, not only the waves and wind, but something as simple as insects trilling, or the whip of our skirts against our legs. It wouldn't be long before our shoes were off and we'd settle down in the dark, and it was Gilbert we talked of then. Anne and Gilbert. Gilbert and Anne.

_Why_ she doesn't she love him? I wondered for the hundredth time_.  
_

She does love him, she replied, which is why she said no. Gilbert should have said no, too, he should have held himself back.

Her tone was so dispassionate and her words pitiless, as if feelings could be neatly tucked away like that locket around her neck. Zip zip zip, the sound as she passed it between her lips.

Love's not like that, I argued. It takes you over, it fills you until you there's nothing left of who you used to be.

That's not love, she argued back. When you love someone, truly love them, their happiness is all.

Then no one has ever loved, I declared. It doesn't exist. At least I hope it doesn't or I should never feel it -and could certainly _never_ love someone who could so easily tame his heart.

True, she said, we never expect our men to be tamed.

There was such a quiet between us. I wasn't thinking about the desperate letters Nate wrote to me, or the hot looks Gilbert Blythe gave Anne when he thought no one was looking. I was thinking of the heat inside myself, how I longed to run into the sea, how unfair it was that I am made to wear that neck to ankle woollen thing. Whereas if I was a man-

Zip zip zip, she went again.

Won't you tell me about her? I said. Her hand went to the locket and she rubbed her thumb upon the great silver face as though she was trying to summon the courage to speak. And I thought, Stella Maynard, you're not even half convinced of the brave things you say to everyone else.

Miss Mallory? she said, quickly. Miss Mallory is. Miss Mallory was. Miss Mallory died last year. Miss Mallory is dead.

I expect she thought I would leave it there, that we would collect our shoes, dust off our skirts and return to our respective beds. Instead I repeated the question. She reached up, removed the locket and opened it without letting herself look at the girl inside. Then she placed it in my hands and quietly told me all about her; that she was also a teacher at the neighbouring school and how they'd become friends over common enemies.

What happened next? I asked, as if she was recounting a fairy story, one that had no consequence in our world. She never moved -she was still as still- yet I could feel her shift away from me.

There is no next, she said. There's never any _next_ for people like me. There's only trying to forget, even as you hope you might one day get your chance again.

And that was the moment -the one I realised I'd been waiting to hear for months. It wasn't when she said 'people like me' it was when she said 'again'. She stared into me like that kestrel I so love, only this time she wasn't on the hunt. She was caught in a snare and looking to me for mercy. I refastened the locket around her neck and when my face brushed against hers she didn't move away, she didn't push me back, she didn't start a quarrel. She simply said, No.

But unlike her I meant what I said. Love takes you over, it fills you up until there's nothing left of who you used to be. I kissed her as we sat on the sand with the sound of the crickets and the sound of the sea. There was no one else around us, just that bird in my hand. And then she flew away.

**… … …**

**August 15th, Orchard Slope, Avonlea**

Dear Journalette,

Gilbert Blythe proposed to Anne. He proposed! Way back in _April_ and Anne only told me now_._ Such a secret to keep from me, I don't even know why. Though I suppose I do. She imagines I'll tell Fred. But I wouldn't have, not if Anne told me _expressly_ not to, I'm certain I wouldn't. I can keep secrets. I kept one from Anne. I never told anyone about that night when Fred and I were out by Bright River to collect his Great Aunt Agnew who got the dates mixed and never turned up, and it rained, and the cartwheel broke, and we broke nearly _all_ the rules and _all_ the buttons, and if it wasn't for Chester Ross coming into that barn looking for his stray calf I suspect I'd be broken too.

Poor Fred kept saying he was glad of the rain because he needed cooling off. And he did, Journalette ~he was so red I thought he'd boil over! And I said wasn't it lucky that someone discovered us in time? But I only half meant it. That was the half that got the littlest bit scared to see my Fred so unlike himself. I remember thinking after, if he acts like that on our honeymoon I'll feel like I married the wrong man. But then there's another part of me ~oh I can't begin to explain it~ but there's another half that sort of likes the idea of being married to two men. Oh, I _knew_ it would come out wrong if I tried to put it into words. It sounds so unchristian and unwholesome to think of it that way. But I don't know another way to say it. And I can't ask _Mama_, and I _can't_ ask Anne.

Poor darling. I seen for a while now that her happiness was only ever painted on. At first I thought she might be missing that Phil-girl with the white piano and a coach with six horses and ice cream _every_ day. Then I wondered if her visit to the little yellow cottage might account for it. Of course, I _never_ mentioned Gilbert because I already knew how _that_ would go. But the longer he was away the more puzzling Anne got to be, and when you look at it like that it makes a sort of sense. But the idea seemed almost too big for my head, and _far_ too big to get out of my mouth, so I finally just decided Anne must be writing another story. She's been awfully star-gazy this summer, and got so vexed trying to find some apple tree that grew by itself in the woods. Well I never saw it, never even _heard_ of it. And guessed it more likely that Anne had imagined it to life, the way she thought Averil was real.

We were looking for that ghost tree again today and I wondered if maybe we'd find it after all, because what happened next seemed impossible to believe. She said, Diana, I have been an abomnoble friend. I was so taken aback I thought Anne was about to tell me she was set on wearing _black_ to my wedding! But instead she told me that Gilbert Blythe had spoken. I saw then why she was glum, because she had her heart set on a romantic proposal and Gilbert must have asked for her hand in a letter. It was all so strange and all I could do was ask why.

This happened in April, Anne said, I didn't know how to tell you because I refused him. Then she added _of course_ as though it was obvious. But it wasn't obvious to me. Or to Fred, or to Green Gables I expect, or anyone else in Avonlea. And surely not to Gilbert. That's when the worst thing came out of my mouth but it could have been horribler still. I am ashamed to say I felt like scolding her. I don't know why, except perhaps I do. And instead of saying something to Anne, I said, Poor Gil.

Then we got the closest to crossness we ever had in all our years together. She said, I don't love him, Diana, and don't tell me I don't know what love is (as if I would!) because I know I love you.

All at once it was Gilbert Blythe I was cross with for making my darling so unhappy. She wrapped her little white arms round me and asked me why things have to change, and I had that satisfying click as everything fell into place at last. Because Anne is _never_ going to want from Gilbert what I have with Fred. If Gilbert changed like Fred did Anne would run a mile. That's why she'd rather live in a book ~because books don't _ever_ change.

**… … …**

**Echo Lodge, Grafton ~Sunday, August 16th  
**

Now here's a peculiar thing, Ady. I no longer know where it is I ought to be.

The first summer before I left for Redmond I drank in every Island moonrise and every Island sunset. The second summer I was desperate to leave her shores. And now, _now_ I don't know what I'm supposed to want.

I feel so indecipherable, not fraudulent exactly, but almost. I thought I would find relief once I unburdened my secret. Diana was so tender and gentle with me, and cried even more than I did. Not only for me, but for a dream I know she has long been cherishing. Just not my own.

When we walked back from the AVIS meeting last Thursday I wasn't wishing I had someone like Fred on my arm. I really wasn't. I was wishing there was _no_ Fred and that Diana was walking with _me_. I can't get used to sharing her, I thought I could, Ady, but this summer I've had to admit that I can't. I implored Diana to come to Miss Lavendar's with me. Back to days of old and picnics of gold, to blue bows and high teas and bell song. But, of course, I was forgetting the quilting bee and the sewing circle and the centrepiece for the wedding breakfast she had yet to begin. Every day I feel her unravelling another inch in order to be stitched into something else.

Even when it's the two of us, she'll get this soft faraway look as though she is remembering something I have never even seen ~and _worse_, that she lacks the language to describe to me. It was always me who put our dreams into words, and now they are so different. Her dreams don't depend upon me anymore.

Why couldn't Fred find work on the mainland and allow me this one summer? He will spend the rest of his life with Diana, while I have to give her up and am expected to be in ecstasies over it. I don't know why I never noticed before, the way Fred is_ always_ around. And then he seems to look at _me_ sometimes as though there's something he wants to get off his chest. What have I ever done to him! There are other girls he could have married and made contented little wives, I'm sure. But there is only one Diana. If only I could take her with me, back to Kingsport.

Oh, Ady, the thought of returning in September ~if I feel indecipherable here, I'm afraid at Redmond I shall become illegible. How can the summer already be ending? When April seems like yesterday.

**... ... ...**

**Ripley's Lodge, White Sands -the early hours of August 16th  
**

Mags, my dear, forgive me, won't you? Not only for what I wrote before, forgive the fact that someone else has worked their way into my heart -or my window at least. She's here. Priscilla is here. She went to the Lodge and threw stones at my window like a prince in a story that Anne would write. I am sorry to tell you, Miss Mallory, but this time I never once thought it was you. I did think I would rather enjoy screaming blue murder at the louts who threatened to wake my cousins. Yet as soon as I saw Priscilla I can't say I was surprised. I flew down to her in a trice. I didn't even try to be quiet, didn't care if I woke up Meg and Jean. All I cared about was how to get that heavy Lodge door open.

Naturally, I couldn't reach the latches, neither could I find a chair to get me to them. Then I heard another sound. A tap that came from that hideous reception room, the one with all the stags heads and animals under glass. She was there, dear old Priss, motioning for me to push up the sash, and scaling the window sill with maddening ease.

"Don't you ever run away from me again!" she said.

Then I did something very foolish, Mags. I promised her I wouldn't.

**… … …**

**Thank you so much for reading, and all your generous reviews. Next up... enter Jonas -or how Philippa Gordon learned to love! Hopefully there'll be a few (much needed) laughs :o)**


	4. Chapter XXIV

**Hey ho! I would like to thank you so much for your positive words about Priss and Stella. If you're wondering where the idea came from, the genesis was in thinking why when every other co-ed was crushing on Gilbert Blythe those two weren't. I suppose I could have made it so, I just preferred this idea more.**

**Big ups, props and fist pumps to a guest reviewer called J for noticing the "I seen" -I have been waiting so long to include that Diana-ism, and for you to notice it gave me more joy than twenty reviews. You won't believe what a saddo I am weaving references through all my stories -colours, flowers, animals, trees, phrases- all the while hoping someone will make a link or feel the story is enriched in some way. Yep, saddo ;o)  
**

**So this chapter, well it didn't come out the way I expected. I just love Phil and Jonas too much to be too vicious. Hope it satisfies, if not say why and I'll try to do better.**

**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. ~everything is hers, only this idea is mine**

**... ... ...**

**Chapter XXIV -Enter Jonas**

_**Monday August 10th, Lakeside Boarding House, Prospect Point**_

**The Ochre Notebook**

Ugh! Cousin Emily has given me the Rose Room this year. All those detestable blooms crowding the walls like crimson cabbages. It's like sleeping inside a case of scarlet fever -that will be the _next_ thing. I'm rather tempted to pine away and die. At least it will give me something to do, and Father will rue the day he sent me off to this backwater again. Filling his cigars with Mother's pot pourri_ was _perhaps a step too far, but I suspect he'll miss me the_ teensiest_ bit as he weeps at my graveside. I hope they realise I shall be wanting to wear my lilac Chantilly in the coffin, or should it be my buttercup Valencienne? As to pall bearers I really couldn't depend upon Alec and Alonzo. They'll be in no fit state and no doubt drop me to the floor, as endured by Cora's granny who insisted on being buried with her collection of stuffed cats. Fifteen of the nasty things crammed in with her for all eternity! It's really too bad we good upstanding Christian types no longer indulge in good upstanding funeral pyres. I adore the idea of my victims throwing themselves on my ashy remains.

Double ugh, it goes to show the depths I have descended to when I would rather sit up here in this polkadotted hell hole and write about my funeral than go down for supper. Emily informed me with an unsubtle glee that I am to be seated with the widows and spinsters. Not a mannie to be seen. Except some theology student of no count and even less interest. There goes the dreaded dinner gong -the very chimes of doom to my poor ears, signalling the end of Philippa Gordon as we know her

_**Later...**_

**The Rose Notebook**

And here I was thinking there wasn't the least point me bringing this book with me, after Father exiled me to what folk who are forced to live in this place have named rather optimistically, Prospect Point. They must have very low prospects, there's nothing at all to look at but a mosquito-ish bit of lake and a few feeble pines gone all to rust from this will-sapping humidity. Even my cabbages are beginning to wilt. And my _hair_ -so frizzy I don't so much wear hats as balance them on my head.

Now Miss Phil, you're tending to Ochre-ishness again and you did promise yourself that you wouldn't. Not that he'd know, much less _care,_ what a frivolous piece of fluff as myself says about anything. Why is it so hard to be good now, when I was the rarest, sweetest girl I've ever been not half an hour ago?

I believe when the angels wanted to know what quotient of beauty to goodness he'd prefer, the foolish man chose _all_ the goodness and _none_ of the beauty at all. Naturally, _I_ chose the opposite. He really is the ugliest man I've ever seen, and that is saying something considering some of the women at our table could make for _extremely_ ugly men. Oh dear, I think before I slip any further, I will summon the most powerful spell I know to cast out ugly thoughts-

Anne Shirley

Anne Shirley

Anne Shirley

No, my remembrance of him is none the prettier, neither is my temper. But I will ignore the pull of that other book and hie my Byrney bones to bed.

Jonas Blake

Jonas Blake

Jonas Blake

Because I simply couldn't resist!

**… … …**

_**Thursday 13th August, Lakeside, Prospect Point**_

**The Rose Notebook**

Surely now when I have spent four hours in his company some of that good has rubbed off on me. Something else rubbed off on me too, I still emanate an odious stench. I suppose that's what happens when one is invited to fish. _Fish!_ I thought they came wrapped in brown paper from the mongers. I didn't tell Jonas that, of course, though I hardly needed to.

Firstly, I sat at the wrong end of the boat, and Jonas says "Just take me out past that headland if you please, Miss Phil." As we swapped positions there was much rocking, wobbling and clutching of hands. He has such smooth, supple palms, the longest fingers -and his fingernails, like palest petals of a miniature rose. There's nothing so refined about the rest of him. Rambling arms and ramblier legs, a thick lipped mouth and a crooked nose. Hair the colour of dirty water and eyes the colour of- well his eyes are the colour of green. Nothing more and nothing less.

You'd think he'd be horribly awkward, knocking his elbows and knees wherever he goes. But he doesn't. Jonas knows exactly where he stops and the world starts. Whereas I feel the world poke in on me all the time. Little wonder I'm forced to poke back -and would have done more than poke any victim who had the audacity to take me fishing. But when Jonas and I go out in that pond -as he calls the grand tourist attraction that is Prospect Lake- it feels as though we are the first people to have thought of such a thing. I long to call out to the dullards on land, "Do you see us?_ We_ are not sitting about and waiting for the fish, _we_ are going to get them!"

Get them we did. I haven't a hope of knowing what it was we caught, they were silvery, slippery and frantically alive. I spent most of my time saying-

"Kill it, kill it for heaven's sake!"

"I could humbly assert I've done my best for heaven's sake," he laughed -have I described how his voice sounds like laughter? Not _actual_ laughter, that I would tire of in less than a minute. Rather it seems as though everything good inside him can't help but burst through each time he opens his mouth- "Though I haven't yet ended a fish for the place."

He finished it off with a swift, firm wallop to the side of the boat, but wasn't nearly so easy on me when I had the misfortune of hooking the next one. "Now grab hold quick-" he began.

Of course I refused, balked, squealed, even expressed a certain curse word. But Jonas knew what he was about; knew the sight of that flailing fish would summon the sort of fortitude I had forgotten was ever inside me. _Me_, who has never killed a thing without a box and a bottle of chloroform.

"Come to calm," he said, with such reassurance I wondered if he was addressing the fish, "Think about what you're going to do, Miss Phil, and then- do it."

"What do you mean, _do it?_" I spat at him. "You need to tell me more than that!"

"No," he said, "I really don't."

I thought, I'll show you, I'll show you how wrong you are, I'll throw this poor fish back in the water! But I didn't. I breathed deeply, dispatched the fish and threw it into the basket. My hands still reek.

**… … …**

_**Wednesday 19th August, Lakeside, Prospect Point**_

**The Rose Notebook**

Have I mentioned how he smiles, as if he had known me from the cradle. The kind of smile that goes right into you, as Anne would say. I have been saying, _as Anne would say_ with bewildering frequency -Jonas must think I haven't a thought of my own.

"She's also uncommon looking," I told him.

"Uncommon looking," he said, "that's new. People usually call me ugly."

We were taking one of our constitutionals by the lake, which but for the mosquitoes and doddering old folk choking the path, might be the closest a Prospect Pointer ever came to fun. I told him I felt about eighty.

"Coincidentally, so do I," he said -though the word 'said' does not begin to describe his chuckling, rumbling, hazelnut flavoured voice. "I like to think of myself as an old, old man who is looking back on a fine old life, with no regrets nor one chance missed."

It sounds so _hokey_ when I write it down, but I swear it wasn't. Rather it was the most sensible way to live I had ever heard, and _I_ am junior secretary at the Philomathic -there isn't a theorem or a treatise I haven't read. But I always tend to pick holes in them. Whereas Jonas's way of living makes everything seem so simple. You feel it _must_ work out in the end. I imagined myself old, but this imagination business is more taxing than axiomatic recursion. What horrors confronted me. My perfect pout had fallen in, my dimples were creased, my hair was white, whereas Jonas was _exactly_ the same. The older _he_ got the more his features made sense. I didn't give his philosophy quite as much credence then. Until I re-imagined myself as an eighty year old who _didn't_ care what a wrinkly ol' frump she became. I wouldn't say it worked entirely, but I was almost reconciled to silvery hair -it looks so darling on Jimsie.

In fact the silvery light worked a magic tonight. It poured down on Jonas till he looked as angelic as any mannie ever looked. So much so that I thought perhaps he was one, except for that _look_ in his eyes. Did I say they were green and nothing more? Well sir, 'I was blind, but now I see'. They are as glimmering as my jade drop earrings, serene as that sacred lake. I thought what a shame it was that the whole world didn't take to living in the dark and sleeping in the day.

Then that angel looked down at me and said if I thought this was the last I'd see of him it was too bad, because he expected me in the front pew of St Columba's every Sunday. My first thought wasn't how barbaric he was expecting _me_ to get all the way to St Columbas by eight -isn't rushing about on Sunday a sin? Well it _ought_ to be- My first thought was I wonder which hat I should wear?

"Weighing your options, are you?" he smiled. "Fret not, Miss Phil, I expect Dr Johnson's sermons are far more interesting than mine".

He is right. Whenever I get myself to church I always feel I am attending the lecture of some worthy explorer, one who has travelled to places I would never dare go, and so never think for one minute that I am required to follow. But when I listen to _Jonas_ make a sermon it's as if he saw that fickle flame inside me and blew a great warm breath all through it.

Till it grew into a fire.

**… … …**

**_Thursday, 27th August, Patty's Place, Spofford Avenue_  
**

**The Ochre Notebook**

Ugh ugh ugh! There was the horriblest moment when I thought I had lost dear ol' Ochre forever!

How can it be that I haven't written in this book for nigh on_ two_ weeks! Most un-Philish. Not only on the inside (and really who cares about the inside of Philippa Gordon?) but the _outside_. Horrors beyond imagining. I have a sunburned nose, three mosquito bites, and my hair -well it grieves me too bitterly to mention my hair. I had to instruct Jimsie to send all my victims away, though she was quick to relieve them of all their offerings. The flowers are all very well, but the boxes of bonbons -where does she _put_ them all? Storing it under her great big crinoline no doubt, waiting for the Day of Judgement. I can just see her at the Pearly Gates sharing a violet fondant with God, himself, as she watches my descent into doom. What a relief Prissy and Stella are back. How I missed all my honeys this summer. Not that they'd know it at this point in time.

I was indecently proud of the surprise I had orchestrated for the girls -it's not like me to go out of my way for anyone. I had to write _four_ letters to those dithery Spoffords, _and_ pass on the references of two carpenters, _and_ the reassurances of a reputable antique merchant. Not to mention my correspondence with Jimsie, to say nothing of tedious ploughing through catalogues searching for just the right pieces. Ugh, it exhausts me to even write of it -why on earth haven't I before? But I thought it worth the endless toil -more fool _me_\- because of an inexplicable desire to be good-deedish.

So the carpenter duly arrived, _then_ the Antique fellow, _then_ the Eatons delivery boys, with Jimsie doling out _my_ hazelnut pralines to each and every one of them. It was only concluded minutes before Prissy and Stella were due to arrive. Two smart single beds. No more Mediaeval monstrosity. I prodded them up the stairs to show them my good work. And what did they do? What did those ungrateful, unloveable potato pickers _do?_

LAUGH!

Great heaving rolls of the most unbecoming laughter.

I believe I'll need to order _three_ times as many Ochre notebooks for Junior year.

**… … …**

_**Friday 28th August, Patty's Place, Spofford Avenue**_

**Rose Notebook**

Larkspur! The darlingest spray of larkspur arrived! For _me!_ Pink, white and purple all tied up in a sweet blue ribbon with a scallop edged card simply signed, _yours, J.B._ I turfed out those gaudy yellow chrysanths immediately -what care I of secret admiration, let that victim take his secret to the grave. I want Larkspur! Larkspur for _love!_

**_Later..._**

Jamesina has just taken great pleasure in informing me that it is only purple larkspur that signify love. Pink signify _fickleness_ -and white a happy nature. I refuse to believe her, and even if I did I don't care. As if a theology student has the least notion of the language of flowers.

All that matters is that he understands me.

**… … …**

**Now, aren't you just the littlest bit in love with Jonas, too? Well Phil certainly is, time for Anne to do the same. Enter Prince Charming...**

**(Essays on the meaning of Phil and the fish due the following Monday)  
**


	5. Chapter XXV

**First to reply to some guest readers, to the reviewer who left me the Montgomery quote, thank you! thank you! -I'm sorry I didn't go into more detail about the Echo Lodge people, but I will in RD4. To J, I am so happy to share membership with you in the saddo club, and to kbmjp, are you real or did I dream you up?**

**When**** I first set out to write the Diary series I imagined I would have great fun at Roy's expense, but now I realise the person I would really be making fun of was Anne. Roy is simply what Gilbert is not. Be careful what you wish for Miss Shirley...**

**Chapter XXV -Enter Prince Charming**

_**Alderley, Kingsport ~bleakest, greyest November **_

_**October 6th 1885**_

Is it day so soon?

Why is it that the light returns when my heart does not?

For weeks have I lived with this chasm of emptiness. A grotto to the monument of love, a shrine to that I cannot have. For she is fair and far from me.

She is fair yet far.

To leave her was to doom myself. Yet leave I must, as the bird must flee the winter in hopes of summer sun. But there is no sun for me. I dwell in bitter darkness and my soul storms on, whilst _she_ remains Untouchable Perfection. Never to be mine, and but for my letters, never to know the pain that I endure.

Endure I must. For the sake of my dear sisters, and for Mother ~whose health only the restorative powers of Bath could resurrect. They shall _never_ know it was not mere adoration but my heart that is unreturned; that their dearest boy now walks the Quads of Redmond without his most sacred organ. It remains forever with Miss Delphine Jago-Jones at the Bath Sanatorium and Hostelry, wanders forever along Spackman Street all the way to the Royal Crescent.

May she ever hear that name and remember one who loves her.

**… … …**

_**Sunday November 6th, Patty's Place**_

Dearest Diary,

I am attempting to dream up a new name for you. I have said my goodbyes to Ady, she was a beautiful book but with too few pages to contain all my ramblings, and must once more look within your word to find another appellation. But you do not answer me ~or is it I can no longer hear? Everything seems muted now, as though November lived inside my breast. It is not myself but that greatest of greats, who is Tennyson to others and kindred soul to me, that best describes this tender ache~

_Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,_

_Tears from the depth of some divine despair  
_

_Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes_

_In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,_

_And thinking of the days no more_

All seems dull and deadened, with nothing to look forward to but longer nights and biting winds. I can't find my green scarf anywhere. Not at Green Gables, neither did I leave it at Mount Holly or Patty's Place. Dora worked on it with inordinate care, that chain of hearts cable-stitch a message of love just for me. I can't bear to tell her that I've lost it. Oh, I _wish_ I could lose myself!

I am lost. I peer at my reflection and wonder who that girl is staring back? I have forgotten how to be her, and worse I've lost the trick of naming things. The only names left in diary are Di and Ria ~hardly the most pleasant sounding when I put them together. Juliet might wonder what's in a name, but even _she_ would balk at that!

Would I feel so November-ish were I not Anne Shirley called? If I glowed with the dawning feeling Phil has for her Jo, or enjoyed the much missed intimacy that Priss and Stella share? Even Jimsie has gentleman callers. They sidle up beside me too, lost youths wanting to warm themselves by my pitiful flame. But I would sooner throw water on all of them than try to tease even one into fire. I would rather be alone than be adored for half myself. All the same it hurts to be around it. Patty's Place throbs like a little brick heart pulsing with love, love, love.

But not for me.

**… … …**

_**Alderley, Kingsport ~under newly written stars of a merciful night**_

_**November 10th, 1885**_

Did my heart love till now?

What was that tame, boyish notion that dwelled inside my breast? That was not love, but mere affection. An affectation. An assumed affliction.

This then is love.

She stood upon the stage and peered over the lectern as Juliet at her balcony. The hair as scarlet as November sky, coiled around her sweet dappled face. And eyes so eloquent in expression! She could say no word yet _I_ would know precisely what she meant.

Her paper on Tennyson spoke of an understanding so in harmony with my own, as though we two had been cast asunder by a vengeful god, and only now reunited under electric lights and the warmth of the coal range at the Kingsport Philomathic.

I craned to hear every word that lady would say. For nothing mattered more to me than her witty observations, her devastating perceptions, her unique opinions on the moral allegories in _Idylls of the King. _Yet were my senses cruelly overwhelmed by the look of her! The style of her! I could not ascertain the words she said for the sweet way her mouth was shaped by the saying of them; was unable to comprehend her argument for the impassioned furrow on her darling ivory brow.

She was Rosetti's_ il Ramoscello_, Millais'_ The Martyr of Solway_, and I on my knees in thrall to her.

Too soon was it over, and on came Humphrey Dench, the very fellow I had come to see. There was nothing to do but remain where I was as he droned upon symbolist features in pre-Christian architecture, knowing all the while my _Beatrix Beata_ was somewhere amongst the rabble in that great grey hall. Perhaps she had noticed me. Perhaps heard the pounding of palm against palm as I applauded her brilliance. Perhaps hoping she too might yet catch a glimpse of the man whose heart had found the answer to his question.

Now she is gone.

Gone

Gone

Yet I live in hope that I shall one day hear that bright angel speak again.

**… … …**

_**Saturday November 12th, Patty's Place**_

Do you know, dear book, I _shall_ call you Ria. A half name in honour of my halved self. Now, tell me sweet, should this half linger inside with the cats by the fire, or venture out to the rush of Autumnal air? I admit I long to go out in it, to feel it press against me, to enter me and fill this dispiriting void. But I am also wary, even afraid, that the sound of something so inconsequential as a football match will be carried on the wind. I don't want to hear that whistle today, or be reminded of who the crowds are cheering for.

He never thanked me for my gift, at least not in person. Nor even sent a note. Merely asked Phil to pass along his gratitude. Which, of course, she promptly forgot. It was left to me to ask if he'd received it. He was perched on the arm of the sofa with Phil, Celeste and another friend of Stella's arguing over who could have committed the Servant Girl Murders. I had to touch his arm before he noticed me, and he flinched as though I'd pricked him.

"I've been meaning to ask you~"

"About Blackmore's talk on sophistical refutations," he said, "or perhaps that article Dr Byrd wrote about hermeneutics in Romantic poetry?"

"Only whether you received my birthday present," I finished lamely.

"I told you that _weeks_ ago, honey," Phil cut in, "I'm sure I did. When was that, Gil ~after the Senior choir catastrophe, wasn't it? When Jo was ministering to something or other and abandoned us to witness the death of 'To the Distant Beloved'. Murdered it was, but _we_ were the ones rolling about on the floor. They had to ask us to leave!"

After a laugh that felt overly long he remembered he hadn't answered me.

"Sorry you thought me ungrateful, Anne. It was a fine read."

A _fine _read. It was the most anticipated book to come out this year. The Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant. I ordered it in _June_. There wasn't a bookshop that carried it, the wait list went to the thousands... _ A fine read! _All at once I had a vision of _all _the presents _all_ the co-eds must have given to Gilbert Blythe for his twenty-fourth. Mine merely one more on an already toppling pile.

Invisible, forgettable, replaceable.

I am sorry too, Ria. Sorry your beginnings have not been so auspicious. No good news, no bright auguries have yet lined your pages. But be that soft place all the same, be my place to fall. Because I've never had more need of you, my little book with half a name.

**… … …**

**_Alderley, Kingsport_ _~anointed, blessed and found again_**

**_November 12__th,__ 1885_**

Oh blessed, blessed night! I am afraid I will awake to find it was a dream! It is too wonderful to be real. She is too wonderful. Yet she too is real. Wonderfully, wonderfully real.

There is a air of myth about her, this I perceived immediately, my _Beatrix_, my _Martyr_. But she is more than that. And I have been a fool. Only now do I see I was never love with Veronique or Isabella or Delphine. Merely in love with _love_.

Until Anne.

_Anne._

Even her name! So steadfast and simple, as her dear little coat and her dear little boots. Not for her the baubles and fripperies of a fickle soul. She needs no ornamentation. Her eyes of smokey topaz speak of a hundred joys and a thousand sorrows. Her lips, of a succulent sweetness, so delicate when she smiles and so generous when she speaks. I was lost, lost to the world she painted with words. We may have been stranded in the drizzling gloam but her melodious voice did she take me to paradise.

Has ever woman spoken with such eloquence about the Autumn programme at the Philomathic, of the incomprehensibility of Professor Leyton's addresses, the tempestuousness of November, and the callousness of umbrellas?

Oh, dear Umbrella. Your mistress may curse your treachery, but you are as Cupid itself for bringing my lady to me.

Shall I ever forget the leap my heart took upon spying that flash of red through the mist. It was she! I knew it by the tilt of her head in her quaint little tam-o-shanter, knew it by the sound of her voice as she cursed her confounded umbrella. The Juliet I had seen not two days before, who gave that unforgettable talk about Wordsworth!

How I got to her so quickly I do not know. How I managed to get a word from my mouth mystifies me all the more. When she looked up at me in that moment I was lost in her eyes, wet lashed and stormy ~as though she was about to surrender to a tempest inside her breast, and then saw in me a _harbour._

I guided her to the pavilion ~unassuming edifice now birthplace of my dreams~ as we shared together the everydaynesses of life. Oh the everydayness of Anne. She is day! She is dawn! Nevermore do I roam the night.

For Anne Shirley is the sun.

**… … …**

_**November 12th Patty's Place ~almost unable to hold my pen!  
**_

Oh, Ria!

My dear Little Half-named book. Something has happened! I feel...

I _feel!_ Oh, I feel again. Such a flood of feeling pouring into every finger, every toe, and everywhere else in between. I am scared to write in you, and yet have thought of nothing else since I floated home two hours ago.

How impossible to me that I set off this afternoon so lost and tossed about. That hollowed out feeling, I see it for what it is now. A terrible guilt for inflicting pain on a dear old chum. With what ease can I let that go now ~as easy as he let go of me. I believe I have been half in love with melancholy, but now, NOW! Oh I want to live, _live,_ LIVE!

Let me tell you everything. I confess I have been composing whole sentences in my head since he left me at the gate.

'Oh, that it was high summer, Miss Shirley,' he declared, 'I should avail myself of every rose along this fine old avenue and present each one to you.'

'Not on my account,' I told him, shyly. 'I hate the think of the thorns you'd encounter, let alone the wrath incurred by the growers of those roses.'

'Just these then,' he said, touching one gloved hand upon the naked tendrils that snake over the arch at our gate.

Can you believe he selected the _one_ rose I love the most! I exclaimed as much before adding, 'When they bloom they are the deepest, most satisfying shade of pink, and the scent of them~'

'Yes,' he smiled ~the most enchanting smile~ I felt as though he had a world of woe to live with yet still would smile for me. 'Pink is perfection, for _this_ moment. But red must be saved, and savoured, for moments rare and true. The red rose speaks of something altogether _more_ significant.'

Oh, Ria! I think I went _all_ red at that moment. But that was nothing to the shade I became an hour later when a dozen long stemmed_ red_ roses arrived for me! And the dearest little card, on which was written~

_All the paper in the country_

_All the stamps and pens and ink_

_I should need if I should tell you_

_All the compliments I think._

_~Royal Gardner~_

Stella took one look at it and said she never would have guessed Mr Gardner a comic on top of all his other brilliant accomplishments. Just because no one sends _her_ a dozen red roses. Phil, of course was suitably impressed.

'From Lillian's! That florist has an exclusive clientele. Madame Lillian is rather fond of yours truly, I told her to make sure any victim who could afford her flower arrangements should be made to double the amount he had planned to spend on me!'

'Hence gardenias in winter,' Priss teased, and helped me remove the leaves from the ends of the stems.

I did bring them up to my little blue room ~I've never had long stemmed roses before, let alone a dozen, and wanted to enjoy every second of their company. But then I saw how right Phil was about the particular way such a bouquet should be displayed. They looked so wrong with the tobacco striped quilt and my faded old chair. Altogether too perfect for my little belongings, and I resigned myself to displaying them downstairs. But the card, that dear funny card, _that_ is with me.

He is the _bluest_ of Bluenoses, Phil tells me. How right then that his remembrance belongs in my room ~and dare I hope~ in my life. We seemed of one mind on _everything,_ there was nothing I said he didn't have something to add to. Can you believe he was at the Philomathic on Thursday? The_ very_ night I read my paper on Tennyson.

'I confess, Miss Shirley,' he said, 'I was there for my old chum, Dench ~but can neither tell you what he said nor even what he wore once I'd heard your paper.'

'Was it really so impressive?' I blushed, 'Don't mistake me for the sort who only wishes to hear what would please them.'

'Then I'm afraid I won't have much to say for I adored every word.'

He refused to say which particular arguments most resonated, 'All, all!' he insisted. If only the publishers at McCords were so generous. Can you believe he knows them, Ria? Both the Gardners and McCords are fond of summering in Switzerland. Apparently there are the most spectacular walking trails. He began to describe one such adventure to me and then suddenly erupted with verse.

"_I wandered lonely as a cloud..._" he began, "_that floats on high o'er vales and hills._"

"_When all at once I saw a crowd_," I answered, I hope not too eagerly, "_A host of golden daffodils." _

I began telling him all about the flowers of home, how we call them narcissus. And then ~oh bliss~ the conversation turned to a discussion about the myth of Narcissus and Echo until it became get so dark I couldn't tell where his hair stopped and the sky began. Is it possible for a man to be made of stars? He seems just that. His eyes are a perfect midnight, even his jaw seems bluish with close shaved whiskers. His brows, lashes and hair a sinuous, glossy black that catches the light. He is ~he _is~_ starlight!

I look at that keepsake stuck to my wall, that darling scene of a starry night, and think only of him.

**Later...**

My eyes have looked their last on that picture. I have had to take it off my wall, having remembered who it was that gave it to me. (I wonder I kept it up there as long as I have.) And in its place Mr Gardner's sweet endearing card of dried, pressed violets.

**… … …**

***If you are in the least way familiar with Romeo and Juliet you'll have noticed I had my fun here.**

***_Tears, idle tears_ from a lyric poem _The Princess_ by Tennyson**

***Paintings mentioned are from the _Pre-Raphaelite School_**

***The Servant Girl Murders were real, as is the song _To the Distant Beloved_ (Beethoven), as is the book (and its popularity) that Anne bought Gilbert, as is that soppy verse on the card from Roy (which I got from a Victorian valentine)**

***The final poem was Wordsworth (not Tennyson -I'm as bad as Roy)  
**

**Ok, so I made quite a bit of fun of him really, but did ever two people deserve each other? I wonder what Gilbert will make of Christine?**


	6. Chapter XXVI

**How to explain Christine, how to explain how the girl in Anne of the Island became the woman in Anne of Ingleside. Here's my attempt... (It's Philippa Gordon's evil twin)**

**Chapter XXVI -Enter Christine**

_**December 5th, Spinelli Street, Kingsport**_

The first thing she says to me as she disembarks is, I hope my brother hasn't hooked me up with some goody-good type, or else you can hail me a ride to Redmond and we can say our goodbyes right now.

My first thought was, Miss Stuart I believe I am going to enjoy your company. We were the only ones in the coach, and I would be curious to know how much more she might have censored herself were there witnesses to our conversation. I suppose _conversation_ would imply I had a chance to get a word in, but I was more than satisfied to immerse myself in her chatter. She'd only been in England for a little over a year but from her exclamations you'd think she had been away for half her life.

Oh, what happened to the Repertory? she exclaimed, I had my first public performance in that dank little hall; Giuseppe Colombi -I was going through an obscure phase. That can't be Peking House! They made the best noodle dishes -have you tried noodles, Mr Blythe? Fried with chillies, garlic and onion. If you ever indulge in noodles please be sure that everyone does the same so you may all endure the same bad breath!

When we approached the potholed mess of Lauder Avenue I went to steady her cello case, which was wedged between her thighs in such a way I got more than an eyeful of her black stockinged calves. She looked at me as if I was attempting to kidnap her child.

No one puts a finger on Delilah but me, she declared, I had to purchase a separate seat for her on the train, and cannot _believe_ that clod of a driver was going to fix her to the roof of this coach. I don't need a crystal ball to know _he_ won't have season tickets to the Kingsport Chamber Ensemble.

The talk didn't move to music then, but to fortune telling, then wove its way through Charles Dickens (she'd met his mistress), the secret lover said to be installed at the Prime Minister's private house at Summerside, how 'Summer' was her favourite movement in The Four Seasons -you must_ immerse_ yourself in it, Mr Blythe, it's really quite erotic- by which time we arrived at Lady Yardley Halls of Residence behind the south quad. I was about to ask whether she would accept my help to get both her and Delilah out of the coach when the House Matron appeared, as did an entirely different woman to the one I had been travelling with.

Good afternoon, Miss Stuart suddenly simpered, I do hope you are Mrs Howarth. So lovely to meet you at last. I can't thank you enough for providing a tour of the rooms, when term is about to end for Christmas, so kind, so kind!

She disappeared into the reception entrance and reappeared a moment later.

Come for me at seven, she said, wear white tie and tails, and I shall endeavour to show you how utterly appreciative I am for your services.

Then grasped her cello with a knack she had clearly mastered long ago, and trotted back into the Hall.

**… … …**

_**Lady Yardley Halls of Residence, Redmond, Kingsport -December 5**_

_Dear Phoebe,_

_Forgive the scrawl and the skimpy paper, I haven't properly unpacked. I don't see the point really when I shall have to go onto Aunt Doom and Uncle Bore in two weeks time. But I wanted to let you know I've arrived safe and sound, as has Delilah (no thanks to the Ocean Star, that ship was so damp I am sure her neck has a kink in it!) and have now been delivered to Redmond._

_I must say -and you will guess immediately that this is the main thrust of my letter- big brother found the most exquisite escort for me. From the Island. And before you wrinkle your nose (he does say "Stuart" in the most adorable fashion) I should make clear he has all of the benefit of that rustic upbringing (think Michelangelo's David but rather more well endowed -yes, I looked!) yet exudes this intelligent air which makes for quite the package. _

_He certainly didn't know what to make of me. I decided to be as much myself as I am with you -perhaps not quite so saucy- simply because I was so spent after the train journey I couldn't maintain a decent facade. That I saved for Matron, and I'll mention another piece of luck, the old dear is one of those thoroughly bribable sorts, so little chance of my being marched out of Redmond as I was from the R.C.M. How did we decide to phrase it, artistic differences with the conductor, wasn't it? _

_Oh, I wish you were here. Kingsport in winter, it's like Edinburgh but more Scottish. How I miss you, Phoebs, and your unmatchable harmonics. Do you suppose my luck should hold out that I might discover an accompanist as unimpeachable as you. _

_Give them hell, won't you?  
_

_Kisses, Christine_

**… … …**

_**December 19th Spinelli Street, Kingsport**_

Did something stupid. It's become something of a habit with me, that and an unnatural knowledge of the life of President Grant. I was waiting for Christine outside a Dr Darby's Rooms. Christine is a fervent proponent of Hysterical Paroxysm -says it is crucial to the intensity of her performance, and takes her treatment there at least once a week. The place happened to be situated just above that jewelers where I once saw Anne. I don't know if it was thinking of Anne that made me look for it, or if it was seeing that pendant that made me think of Anne. Probably the latter as I try to avoid the former as much as I can. Either way, there it was, looking sad and bereft with the other sale items, and I knew without even calculating whether I could afford it that I would go in and purchase the thing.

I regretted it immediately, though the jeweler complimented my eye. That, sir, is genuine Cloisonne, he said in a thick Quebecois accent. So sad such quality is ignored these days. People demand these brash statement pieces, bah! This pendant is _vient du coeur_ -comes truly from the heart.

It was when he was wrapping it up that I saw them. Anne and the fellow said to be going about with her. Royal Gardner. And he was a real prince. He wore a cape. He and Anne had their faces pressed against the glass, with the man himself pointing out diamonds and rubies the size of Anne's eyes. I pretended to take great interest in the carriage clocks on the opposite wall, the box in my hand like a white hot coal.

I knew right then that I would send that heart to her for Christmas, and with it the last of any feeling, any hope, any love I ever had. May she crush it like she did the bit of candy I gave her as a boy. She always did know what she wanted. I just never believed her.

**… … …**

_**L.Y.H.R, Redmond, Kingsport -February 14**_

_Dear Phoebe,_

_I know everyone else will be droning on about your upcoming nuptials -could Dr Barnard really do nothing for it, is five months really too late for that kind of tea? Do you know I believe God made woman first and then ironed out all the kinks when he made man. Speaking of undeserving men, any word on Hartley? Has he begun to miss me yet? It's about this time that no speakies begins to pall. Especially on Valentines Day. Though we both swore never to give into such mawkish romanticism, I didn't expect him to be so steadfast over that particular oath._

_Nevertheless I am having the most divine time with my Mr Blythe. Now where was I up to? Oh, yes, that air of intelligence he has. Well it turns out he is fabulously talented in the brains department, just not as waggish as I'd like. At first I assumed he merely lacked a sense of humour, as so many scholars do, but as it turns out this 'air' masks the whiff of a badly broken heart. _

_I'm afraid it's serious, Phoebs, because she really isn't beautiful. A man would have to had fallen hard and fast for such a freckled little witch. No, I'm not being unkind, you know I have all sorts of respect for the occult. By the way Mr Blythe went so far as to flat out refuse my request he accompany me to that séance in Guildford. I had to take Tobias, and you know what he's like. Percussionists! But this girl certainly has that bewitching quality, and my favourite is certainly under her spell. _

_You'll never guess who she is going about with -her name being Anne (like that sainted mother.) Royal Gardner! The Prince of Purple Hearts himself. He's returned from Bath after another of Mrs Gardner's nerve attacks. All the old brigade were there, Royal, Jasper Osborne, Piers Radcliffe, Sophia (she's pronouncing it Sa-fire now), Louisa, Richard. The whole pageant of perilously bad poets in deep discussion about who knows what -probably whether the guest speaker's speech scanned correctly. _

_Don't worry I was on best behaviour, the head of Music at Redmond is a slave driver as I said. No one but my nearest and dearest has the least inkling I am anything other than a very sweet, very diligent second cellist. Besides, Papa threatened to halve my allowance if I misbehaved again. And as I have the most expensive tastes, and as my escort possesses every known gift to manhood except for the most important -an enormous... bank balance (what did you think I was going to say, Miss Phoebs?) I have been forced to spend far more money than expected. Fortunately he is not the sort who thinks that fun must be paid for.  
_

_Poor Mr Blythe. Even my string of pearls couldn't distract him, and you know most men go feral for the way they fall into my decolletage. How many fellows have attempted to fish them out again! But he only had eyes -sad, forlorn puppy eyes- for Roy's latest sweetheart. And no one is ever going to win a lass away from Roy. I was expecting her to look a little forlorn herself. You know how old friends love to freeze out the new girl. But Anne held her own admirably. Quite sparky -and her laugh! Now that reminds me of the strange occurrence I particularly wanted mention to you, because I know you have a spiritualist bent. Well, what do you say to this? _

_We were all at our respective tables, mine with Mr Blythe and various members of the orchestra, St Anne with her Purple Poets, when the guest speaker arrived. He was introduced by the Senior Dean -whose name I forget because we all call him the Walrus for his luxuriant moustache. (No, not very original, but this is Redmond not the Sorbonne.) I should mention now that this particular reception was a farewell hosted by the Juniors for their wise old elders, and a banner was hung from the velvet curtains that framed the stage which read,"So Long Redmond Seniors." Well, the guest speaker, some philanthropist who once attended Redmond, began his speech. The Walrus sat down beside him, a cigar clenched in his fat pink lips, the 'Keys to Redmond' in his fat little fist (in place of a donation of any actual value) and proceeded to fall very deeply and very publicly asleep. _

_So far, so what, I hear you say. Well here's the spooky thing, and it wasn't when the smell of singed moustache hair began to hit our nostrils. But when Mr Blythe began to emit badly suppressed snorts at the same time that little red haired Saint began to fall about laughing. _

_The Purple Hearts all stared at her with looks of perfect bafflement, as though laughter was a curse word -I suppose happiness clashes with their melancholy hats. And my perfectly attuned ears heard her say "So Long Redmond Seniors! Don't you see-" just as Mr Blythe murmured into my ear "The banner, it spells out 'Smouldering Doners Nose' !"_

**… … …**

_**February 14th, Spinelli Street, Kingsport**_

Happy St Valentine's, old man.

If there was ever a day I might have seen that heart about Anne's neck (Blythe, do _not_ use this as an excuse to think about Anne's neck) it would have been tonight. But what lay there instead. A gold chain of such fineness, like a strand of Fairy's hair as someone I knew might say.

Did he give it to her? Did he have the unbelievable, unfair pleasure of sweeping her hair from the collar of her dress and fixing the clasp? He couldn't have. No man could make his hands obey in that moment.

Did she do it for him, then? Did she reach her arms behind her head, did he notice the way her dress stretched over her as she did so? Did his gaze fall to where her necklace nestled? Did her eyes glow with gratitude for something I could never give her?

Is he walking her home now, is he sheltering her body under that ridiculous velvet cape? Is her arm about his waist, her red hair tangled in his brooding bristly jaw? Is she looking up at him the way she never looked at me? Does he make her laugh?

Of all the things to beat me down it wasn't her sitting with Gardner, it wasn't her painful new friends, and it wasn't that she didn't wear my paltry pink heart. It was hearing her laugh. It was remembering that I used to make her laugh like that. It was having that feeling rush through me again, like relief and agony all churned into one. Knowing the only time I'll hear it now is when she's on the other side of the room. But I heard it at least. I still have that.

I've never been one to pray to the saints, but Valentine please, if Gardner is to have all that Anne is, let him always make her laugh.

**… … …**

**Thank you all so much for your comments :o) You amaze me and bless me every day!  
**

**-That first entry was supposed to be a play on Anne arriving at Green Gables. **

**-No diary for Christine, I think because she can't bear to look inside her heart right now, but gossipy letters are such fun!**

**-Hysterical Paroxysms - I can't even begin to explain what they are, or that those high and mighty Victorians ever prescribed such a thing. I leave it to you to find this out on your own.**

**-Can't speak French, so if I have the wrong phrasing the correct phrasing would be much appreciated**

**-I got the idea of Christine being a cello player from another story I read here, but I cannot give it proper acknowledgement as I forget what it's called.**

**-Impossibly pleased that Roy was to your liking, I quite like him too, the great big bleeding heart. To the reviewer who wanted to know why Fred was giving Anne sideways looks it was simply because she hurt his best mate.**

**Now who would like to know exactly what Roy and Anne got up to...**


	7. Chapter XXVII

**Wow, you know you've done something right when as many people love a character as hate her. As soon as I had that first line from Gilbert I felt I understood her. But I am very happy that she is someone that resonates with you too.**

**In the book this chapter is supposed to take place in mid March, and I am generally scrupulous about these things, but this time I ask if you would give me a week's leeway to set these entries on the 7th instead of the 14th.**

**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. -everything is hers, only this idea is mine.**

**Chapter XXVII -Mutual Confidences**

_**March 7th 1886, Patty's Place**_

Dear Ria,

I am in half once again, Roy having taken his heavenly self to the 'Gentlemen's Review'. Of course, I would much rather he went to see great works of art than spend a quiet, fireside evening with me. There are bound to be many of them in our future, whereas this exhibition will only be touring Kingsport for a week. Only it _is _my birthday ~but then he _did_ devote almost all his free time to composing the loveliest poem. Not just a poem, a _sonnet!_ And not to some Bright Star or Dark Lady, but to Miss Anne Shirley! I admit that it's not quite in the realm of Keats, but then Keats is not in the realm of Royal either. And as Phil is always saying ~Alas, we cannae have everything!

So why do I feel as though she has exactly that?

I think of all the romantic proposals I might have received, all the fevered expressions and urgent pleas ~as though my beloved could live without his right arm before he could live without me. But nothing I have imagined has quite touched my heart the way Jonas Blake ~poor, plain, _perfect_ Jonas Blake~ asked for Philippa's hand.

Mr Blake said to Phil that he had given up thinking of himself as an eighty year old man because...

_...he was unable to think of himself at that age without Philippa always next to him._

Oh, Ria! Was there ever a more beautiful, more courageous way to ask for a someone's hand? It spoke to my heart the moment I heard it, though apparently it spoke to Phil's nose, as she could barely stop sneezing while he said those magnificent words to her. Poor darling, I know how much she wanted this. After every visit she would come in from the gate, her adorable little face writ large with an agonised longing. It's such a beautiful expression, _longing._ All that hope, all that want, burning bright in one's eyes. Of course, I love the way Roy looks at me, too, as though he had found... now how did he express it? As though he'd discovered 'a long lost Leonardo'. Isn't that exquisite? Perhaps his poem says it even more succinctly~

Then again, there is no strict need to write it out here when I shall cherish it forever on the heart shaped card he wrote it upon. But take it from me, Ria, that my eyes are stars of morning, my cheek stole the flush from the sunrise, and that I belong in the finest frame of purest gold so that all the world might behold my singular perfection.

Perhaps that's why he very much wanted to go to the exhibition tonight ~that he might find further inspiration for his writing. I am quietly hoping he might, though it is not for want of a muse but a hope that perhaps Venus will shine her light upon him. There are said to be several on view this evening, all in various states of undress. Which is why we poor females are not granted the pleasure of visiting them, that is a gentleman's privilege alone.

'I look at Venus everyday!' Priss huffed, when Royal said his farewells ~he had to leave earlier than anticipated because he wanted to wear his new top hat to the Gallery, and the milliner's was due to close~ 'Why is it perfectly acceptable for me to live in my body, bathe and dress my body, pose for an artist with my body, yet not look upon a _painting_ of my body?'

'Royal Gardner is not going to this exhibition to gaze at _bodies_,' Jimsie said ~somewhat crossly too, the dear. 'He is going for the _art._ Ogling women would never occur to such a fine upstanding man.'

'Yes, Aunty,' Stella smirked, 'I think you are absolutely right.' She's just teasing me because Roy and I never spend more than a few moments at the gate. 'Back _already_, she winks, 'I thought parting was such sweet sorrow that you would say your goodnights till it be morrow?'

I wouldn't mind if we did linger, but I suppose that to be my Island upbringing. I remember taking many an unchaperoned walk in the moonlight, sharing many goodbyes at the gate which could have been said in two minutes, and ended up taking two hours. But, as Roy reminds me, this is _not_ the Island. And besides isn't anticipation one of the sweetest delights? Oh, the waiting, the waiting, the long, aching waiting...

Oh! Oh, Ria! Jimsie is calling up the stairs that Roy is here! Roy is back from the exhibition! I knew he would come back to me, oh I _knew_ it!

**… … …**

_**L.Y.H.R. Kingsport -March 7**_

_Dear Phoebe,_

_How long have I been writing this letter? Looks to be a week at least. A bad habit of mine, particularly as I can no longer remember what I have written. One of the drawbacks of having so many faces to maintain, I can never recall what I said to one and not to the other. I have just returned from a glorious evening all thanks to that Philopena. Have I mentioned the Philopena? Well, bear with, if I repeat myself -besides what else have you to do? _

_Did they really order you not to play the violin in case you over exert yourself in your delicate condition? Can you write that to Dawson, so that he might once and for all understand why I shall never have children. To give up oneself so that another may be born, what pray tell is the point of that? Of course, I might have sons who might in turn do anything they wish. But I have an inkling I would make the very worst sort of mother to a male child. Has that Medium made his visit yet? Any word on what that little kernel growing inside you will make its first appearance as this summer?_

_Kernels! The Philopena. Now let me see- _

_Last Thursday evening I managed to entice Mr Blythe away from his work -not his course work, he is not quite so studious as I believe he once was- but from the newspaper. He's sub-editing now, which is a relief for me, reporters keep the most unreliable hours. I have said on more than one occasion that he was welcome to come by the Halls at any time -it is what I pay that Matron for after all- but he is the honourable sort. In fact I have taken to calling him St Gilbert (in my head of course, he's a good Presbyterian boy and they don't do Saints. Do you do Saints, Phoebs? Perhaps you'd better start, and get some Ave Marias in for good measure.) Well the Gilbertine Order had this self punishing tradition of saving whatever was best on their plates and giving it out to the poor. Can you imagine if such a practice ever took on -the urchins on Patterson St would be fatter than I am. Yet it describes Mr Blythe down to the tiniest specks in his big puppy eyes. Always ready to give whatever is best to someone else and taking what's left for himself. _

_Pour example, he always insists on paying when I know he hasn't a penny. It's having a dire effect on my weight because I am always insisting we must share a meal, whereupon he picks at the potatoes and leaves the roast meat to me. Well, you know as well as I do that half a dinner is never going to satisfy my appetites, and have got into the imprudent habit of stuffing myself on cakes and chocolates before he is due to arrive. If I tell you I no longer fit my rose satin you'll know how full my hips have become. Fortunately my bosom is even bigger. And sharing does have other benefits besides those for the soul. Yes, finally I come to the Philopena. _

_Well it began with a bowl of almonds. I longed to order the crème caramel, but having Mr Blythe at my mercy is worth a hundred sugary concoctions. No I'm not in love, my dear, I don't do love -and neither should you. _

_"So what is it to be?" he asked me, when I beat him to the call. "I've already done aprons and bonnets on the High Street, and been blackballed from the Lambs, so I should warn you I don't scare easily." _

_That was when I noticed the advertisement pinned at the door of the tavern. A Review at the Hamilton Gallery -for gentleman only. And you know very well what that means, Miss Phoebe. Wall upon wall of sweet dimpled flesh. Succulent, sensuous and strictly for the male gaze. _

_"I want you to get me in there," I said, pointing to the poster._

_He didn't refuse. Didn't even say that he wished he could. He took his share of the almond, popped it in his mouth and said, "Done."_

**… … …**

_**7th March 1886, Spinelli Street, Kingsport**_

Every day Royal Gardner seems to go out of his way to give me another reason not to like him. If I could have liked him, I would have. Yes, it would hurt. But hurt can always be counted on to go numb after a while. You stop feeling the cane hit the back of your legs after the first ten. But anger. I can't sleep for the anger inside me. Can't put together a decent essay, can't remember what day my first final is. Can't think of anything but how much I want to knock his ten foot hat to the ground and stamp on it, preferably while it's still on his head.

It's Anne's birthday. Her twenty-first birthday, and there he was at the Hamilton Gallery mooning over masterpieces. Masterpieces she would have loved, yet was barred from seeing. It wasn't even much of a challenge getting Christine inside. A pair of dark spectacles and a cane for me, the Matron's apron for her; the gentleman and his nurse, brought along to describe the artwork to her blind employer. She removed the apron the moment we went inside but I preferred to keep my disguise intact. I don't know if Gardner knows who I am but I wasn't looking for an introduction.

Being without sight meant that I had to stay wherever my nurse put me. And by design or not -one never knows with Miss Stuart- she positioned me right in front of a naked redhead and left me there. Alexandre Cabanel's _Birth of Venus_, every creamy, writhing inch of her; lying upon a frothing sea, her arm about her head, her lips about to touch against soft and glowing skin. And her face, as if she had just been woken by the sweetest pleasure and was still remembering it. I was so lost in her I thought the person come up beside me was Christine.

Where have you been? I asked. Sir, allow me, Gardner answered. This is the Cabanel Venus. An excellent example of contrapposto. The tonality of flesh is unmatched. The eroticism lies not in the positioning of the figure however, but in the face. Although it is only on close inspection one can appreciate it, the half opened eyes, the mouth rendered vertically. The Putti however, poorly executed in my opinion. Almost comical in appearance. Now, if it pleases you, I'll guide you to this bench until your nurse returns.

The entire time he spoke all I could think was how can you be confronted with such an image and think of painterly techniques and comical cupids? How could you speak at all? How could you possibly prefer to look at a painting when you could have the real woman in your arms? Of course, then I thought of the two of them together. Thought of the next time Gardner saw Anne, with that goddess fresh in his mind.

I know I'm giving into the lowest sort of feeling, I know that. How can I dislike the fellow for missing Anne's birthday and then hate the thought of his going to her? But he _should_ go to her. As this mysterious fiance should go to Christine. How can he be away from her for month after month, when it's clear how much she misses him. She pretends she doesn't, of course. But I know that act, I perfected it.

**… … …**

**Patty's Place ~the wee sma's**

I can't sleep. Downstairs Jo and Phil are canoodling on the sofa. Next door the sounds... the sounds... I don't want to imagine what they mean. I recognise them. I've made them myself. But they can't be the same, I know that they can't. It's far more likely that Stella is having another bad dream, and Priss is murmuring words of comfort. But it sounds too much like something else.

I am thinking of the first time I climbed up the old beech tree when Josie and Gertie wandered down to the Wright's side of the Lake. I never thought anyone would be swimming there, I was half wishing I might swim there myself. Instead I found myself straddling a thick branch, clamping down on it in terror, knowing if the Pye girls saw me they would make it known throughout Avonlea that I'd been spying on the boys. The two of them happened to be far more interested in discovering just who was splashing about in the water and disappeared into the laurels. But I didn't want to leave. The way that branch felt between my thighs when I moved just so. I was excited and terrified all at once, thinking I might turn into a tree like Daphne and Apollo. When that sound came from my throat I truly believed I would. Afterwards, I remember looking at my arms and legs waiting for leaves to sprout out of my fingertips. I felt like a flower, bursting open, and so heady, all I wanted was to bring about that feeling again and again and again.

This would be about the time when Marilla began saying that she started to actually miss the Anne whose tongue seemed fixed in the middle. But when you have such a secret inside you, you can't speak, only wonder does _everybody_ feel this way? There's no one to ask. Because it's something that was never meant to be shared. Just a secret for ourselves. And how I hugged it to me, to have something that was mine. Something I would never want to wish away like red hair or freckles, something that could never be taken away like my parents or Matthew, something I loved about me that belonged to me forever. Only now I feel I'm beginning to feel that _mine_ isn't enough, that perhaps mine is only half the story, and that a story might not be as wonderful as the real thing.

Roy came back to me tonight, and I wanted as I never had, for him to sweep me up and hold me tightly in his arms. I know the smell of him, adore the look of him, but the feel of him... I want to_ feel_ him, Ria. How will I know if we are meant for each other until I know how we fit together? I long to _know. _To experience what new transformation might occur if I press into another the way I pressed against that branch.

I walked down to the gate with him, trying in every way I knew to appear as beautiful as I possibly could. Recalling how Phil would lengthen her neck, how Josie would puff out her chest, how Diana would lower her lashes. While my eyes did their best to say to him, Don't speak, darling, don't say a word, just take me in your arms.

It began so promisingly, 'You were on my mind all evening, Anne,' he said, softly. 'As I strolled along that gallery all thoughts turned to you.'

I was afraid he was about to compare me to some goddess ~how did that happen, Ria, that I began to be afraid of being compared to perfection? But then he began to talk of some man he'd met.

'He was blind, Anne, and left to fend for himself. No nurse, no wife to care for him, watch over him. And I thought, _my_ Anne, my _Angel_, would _never_ do that to me. I couldn't return to my chamber tonight until I told you. Forgive this fool for keeping you from dreamland.'

Then he turned and looked about for some high minded neighbour who might have spied us from a window, before departing with a wild flourish of his cape. I watched him as he walked away and looked up to the stars. There was Venus shining down on me, and I sent a wish up to her. That we did not need to be so perfect, that we might not always be thinking of how we appear. I wished for what can be said without words.

I wished I was on the Island.

**… … …**

**Philopena is a game (usually played between a courting couple) whereupon if a double kernel is discovered in a nutshell the first of the two to call 'Philopena' can hold the other up to a dare, or similar.**

**Beech trees have smooth bark by the way -though that wasn't the only reason I chose that specific variety.**

**Edkchestnut: Philopena, just for you!  
**

**Erika: Who said Hartley was her fiance? ;o)**

**Mountainrivergirl: Skeptic, yes. But mostly just oblivious -not just to Christine's beauty but to everything. I wanted to look at what happens when you live for someone else, you have no compass when they're gone :o(**

**Astrakelly: Anne and Christine will get their meeting, just not yet...**

**Katherine Brook: Thank you, darling. You know me -anagram nerd for life! :o)**

**Now it seems all Avonlea knows that Gilbert proposed to Anne -how did that happen...**


	8. Chapter XXVIII

**Thank you for your passionate reviews. This chapter is set in the weeks before Anne is due to return to Avonlea for part of the summer. Her feelings about coming back to the Island will be mentioned in the next chapter. I needed something to write about as someone has already written a perfect account of Diana's Wedding -ahem, Bertha Willis ;oP**

**Chapter XXVIII -A June Evening**

_**April 10th 1886, Patty's Place, Kingsport -472 days without you  
**_

_To be continued..._

Back again, Mags, my_ s_weet. That was Gil, come to return an old scarf of Anne's. He said he'd found it as he was packing for the end of term. Never mind that it couldn't have been further from him than his hat hook -we all know he's been wearing it all winter. Poor old Gilbert Blythe. And that's not even the worst of it. Roy happened to be in our sitting room waiting for Anne to return from her life drawing class -or is it flower arranging, I can never keep up- and declared that Mr Blythe must have made an error, because there was no way such a plainly made garment could have ever belonged to Miss Shirley.

"Oh, yes it does!" I said -perhaps a little too triumphantly. But I couldn't help myself, Mags, there is something about Royal Gardner that rankles. If I was living in a novel no doubt readers would suspect I was secretly in love with him. Lucky for him I'm not, because Roy isn't used to women disagreeing with him over woollens. His perfect complexion went rather red. Gilbert went red too, the scarf still in his hands, unsure what to do next. So I told them both that I recognised it from Queens days, though I know full well that Dora Keith made it for Anne before she left for Redmond.

Nice work it was too, Mags. Such a soft and cosy thing, I can see why Anne might have missed it. Though I could hardly say she had torn apart every room in Patty's Place trying to find it, because Gilbert would doubtless feel even worse. Though this may be impossible. There can only be one reason why he has finally given up that green scarf. Because he's heard the same thing I have. Which as you'll remember is the first piece of news I began your letter with; that Miss Anne Shirley and Mr Royal Gardner are on the brink of announcing their engagement.

All Redmond is alight with the news, though it not is strictly settled, merely a matter of when he decides to ask. And even though I haven't warmed to ol' Roy I have to admit there must be more of a fire burning under that perfectly starched shirt than I gave him credit for. Because he hasn't even introduced Anne to Mrs Gardner yet, and she is said to be the queen of propriety. Clearly the thought of spending a summer without his _Auburn Angel_ has overwhelmed his senses. Not that it would take much doing. I thought he was going to faint during our jaunt to Mount Wellington yesterday, the way he went on about the "narrow girdle of rough stones and crags." When he got down on one knee -in order to pick a pebble out of Anne's shoe- I think half of us expected him to propose. (The other half no doubt expecting he was about to keel over because his cravat was wound so tightly round his neck.)

And no doubt you will have deduced by now that when it comes to Anne's sweetheart I have a touch of the 'greens' myself. But Priss _will_ be keep being impressed by him. She doesn't say it (she never would) but I can't help noticing the way her eyes linger on Mr Gardner's slim hips and strong, dimpled chin. Apparently Mr Rawley had a dimple in his chin, too. I don't know what the attraction is, whenever I see one all I can think is how awkward it must be to shave. But Roy clearly has the talent for it, and for working stones out of Miss Shirley's shoe. Poor thing, I could tell she was literally willing Roy to stand up again. I suppose because she thought the same thing we all did, that he was about to ask her to become _Mrs_ Royal Gardner, right there among the buttercups and cow pats.

Anne Gardner. How strange it sounds. I wonder if she is the type of girl to write it out in secret. I saw that Priss had done it in one of her old ledgers. Priscilla Rawley. Written out at least one hundred times. I sometimes wonder Mags, what name Miss Grant is destined to take one day. Or at least I would if I believed in destiny.

Ever, Stella

**… … …**

_**12th April, Patty's Place ~doodling and dreaming on a dulcet dawn  
**_

Mrs Gardner

Mrs A. Gardner

Mr and Mrs Royal Gardner

Mrs Royal Gardner

Mr R. and Mrs A. Gardner

Mr and Mrs Gardner

Mrs A. Andrews

Mrs A. Sloane

Anne Blythe

Anne Blythe

Anne Blythe

Anne Blythe

Anne Blythe

Anne Blythe

Anne Blythe

Anne.

**… … …**

_**12th April, Spinelli Street, Kingsport  
**_

Returned from my meeting with the Dean. As expected he wanted to talk about my progress, it hadn't escaped his notice that I haven't been putting in the same effort I did for my Freshman and Sophomore years. I'm in the top ten, what more does he want. A lot more it seems.

Time to think seriously about your future, Blythe, he says.

The sight of him without his famous moustache almost made me laugh. As does the word future. What do I care about that now? Naturally I didn't say this to the fellow, merely nodded in an interested fashion as though I was flattered. But I couldn't keep it up for long, not after what came next.

I understand you work up to thirty hours a week for a newspaper, I expect you to have that cut to ten come September. I also want football cut, in addition to the Historical Society, the Shakespearean Society, in fact everything that will detract from your work.

I can't do that, I said, But the man had merely begun. I have also been made aware that you've been spending your time with certain members of our Music Department, Mr Blythe. I won't cast aspersions on their characters, but I will say they tend to keep hours you can no longer afford. And there are other things you can't afford. These pranks and whatnot-

I got angrier by the minute and told him I had no idea what he was referring to. Don't you? he said, Well let me be clear, you could have lost your place at Redmond after a certain incident with young MacDonald.

I was quick to remind him that 'young MacDonald' is both a famously bad scholar and an infamous bully. To which the Dean replied that the Redmond library has recently acquired a rare collection of botanical prints thanks to founder of the Daily Express.

So a rich man may do as he pleases, I said, whereas I am expected to give everything up?

He looked me straight in the eye, he didn't contradict me, only said, You have something that cannot be bought, Mr Blythe.

Which is a pity, I replied, because I'd sell it if I could. I'll drop those extra-curricular activities, but there's only one thing I can't afford. Unlike your other students if I don't work then I can't stay.

Then that is a tragedy, he said, because you have one of the finest minds I have ever encountered in all my years at Redmond.

All I thought was, You don't know what tragedy is.

**… … …**

_**20th April, Allwinds, Avonlea  
**_

_Dear Gilbert,_

_I haven't told your father about this letter. You know that it's perfectly possible for a husband and wife to have differing opinions on the best way to go about things. No doubt he'll take you down the porch steps and blow that confounded pipe smoke in your face in order to talk to you about it. I wanted to write._

_Firstly, you should know Domino has been sold. There was a family of travellers come through here last week. I know most folks don't put much trust in gypsies but they sold nice quality things and I observed they were kind to their children and animals. It was a young girl, about your age, who asked if there were any ponies for sale round these parts. Domino took to her straight away, she can ride him like you, without a saddle. The poor creature's been so bored. I had hoped the Barry's might indulge their Minnie-May -Minnie-May hoped so too, Domino's leaving was a bitter blow I understand- but that can't be helped. I managed to get a fair price, not too much haggling. Pup was over in Charlottetown for the auctions, but he nodded his head and said I did alright. And when he says that then you know it couldn't have been done any better. Of course, the money we got doesn't go anywhere near what you'll need for next year, and this is what I wanted to write you about._

_We had a letter, two actually, from a Professor Reid at Redmond. As I understand he'll be supervising your studies next year. You'll no doubt have had a conversation with him yourself by now, as he is of the strongest opinion that if you could take the Cooper Prize. Pup and I had no idea what that was -hence the need for a second letter- but by his account it's a famous scholarship that would pay for all your post graduate studies, including bed and board at the Halls (no more nasty boarding houses!) We know you have your heart set on becoming a doctor. With this scholarship you'd be qualified in half the time, and it's our dearest wish that you should do all in your power to win it if you can._

_To that end I want you to know we are selling the orchard to your cousin Andrew. Well in point of fact, Gilbert, we've sold it. Don't be grieving about those trees, they've had a fine old life and you are no farmer. We all know it was only a matter of time before Allwinds is parcelled off, be thankful our apples will stay in the family and there's an end to it. Your father and I mean to pay for your tuition, so no more ridiculous hours at that newspaper and whatever else you've been getting up to._

_Now this brings me to what I particularly wanted to mention to you, and this is where Pup and I differ. We know you asked for Anne's hand, darling. I'm sorry to tell you it's common knowledge round here, and Fred's wedding will likely make it the source of much more idle chatter for a few months yet. It will hardly matter to you when I say how surprised I am young Anne refused you. I can scarcely believe she expects to do better- but that is not for me to say. My duty is to you._

_Your mother's cogs have been a-whirring and I see now why you have been so changed of late. I am afraid in this you take too much after your father, Gilbert. You know he had his chance to make more of his life, but gave it up in the hopes that someone might someday change. I won't see you do the same. I won't have you throw away this opportunity because some girl was too stubborn to know her own mind._

_Your aunt Mary-Maria takes great enjoyment in telling me that I am her cousin's second choice. But you know I pay her no heed. I am well versed in the quiet workings of your father's heart and I hold my head high in that knowledge. When you come back to us in June for the wedding I expect you to do the same. Do your best by Fred, and most importantly, do right by yourself._

_Forgive a mother her interference. Some day you'll have sons and daughters of your own and then you'll understand._

_All love to you, sweet boy,_

_Mam_

_**... ... ...**_

_**April 20th, Orchard Slope, Avonlea  
**_

_Dearest, darling Anne,_

_I have uncomfortable news and wanted you to know before you arrive back home. Everyone is talking about how you went and refused Gilbert Blythe. Oh, Anne, I don't know how it happened, I never said a word. Except to Fred. Can you believe he knew already ~isn't that just like a man! And of course I spoke about it to Mama, because, well because she's Mama. Minnie-May could well have heard it too. You don't suppose the little wretch told anyone, do you? She's always going about with Pippa-Fay Fletcher and neither of them have much love for Gilbert, not since he's been wanting to sell Domino._

_Did you know about that? After all the trouble he took getting that horse well again! Remember how he had to go about writing up his lessons with his right hand because that horse near bit his finger off? But I am forgetting myself, darling. How is Royal? You never did tell me what the opera was like, up in the box too. Was it an epoch in your life, like the time we saw that fat soprano in Charlottetown? Aunt Josephine wouldn't recognise you now, so stylish and accomplished. I am glad you agree with the sleeve length for your bridesmaid's gown, I would hate for you to feel countryfied. Did I mention that I've finally decided to buy the calico pattern dinner service with part of my inheritance? And Fred was fine with wanting to get a piano, so long as there's enough put by to improve our new place. The Pines is a little on the small side, but so sociably situated. And as Fred says you can always add another room but you can't move a road!_

_I know what he means by adding rooms. He means children! Oh Anne, don't laugh but I keep expecting Mama to pull me aside at every moment and tell me she was only teasing about the making of babies, and that the way they actually come about is by far easier -and far less embarrassing! Have you ever? Could you ever? Which reminds me, I don't suppose you will be able to get your hands on a copy of 'Guide to the Gentleman' before you leave Kingsport? There's no way for me to order it unless I go through Lawson's and I don't want it known that I bought a copy of such an indecent book. You know what tattle-tales people can be round here. Well, of course you do, it is usually you they are talking about. And I'm afraid when you come back to Avonlea you'll find not much has changed._

_It's certainly more peculiar this time round. After you won your prize from Rollings Reliable there's a good portion of this town that says Anne Shirley can do no wrong. Of course, the Pyes aren't included in that portion, and neither are the Sloanes. How I laughed at Mrs Peter's predicament, because she can't side with either you or Gilbert. She detests you for refusing Charlie, but she also detests Gilbert for thinking he could win you when her son couldn't! Oh, the sweet satisfaction of seeing such a great big glob of gossip plop down in Avonlea and watching her twitch knowing she can't have any part of it. Not that it's such a great big glob. By the time Gilbert comes in June it will certainly be forgotten. Well, we can hope._

_Oh, Anne, you know how people just came to expect it. Every mother wanted Gilbert Blythe for their daughter (my mother included!) They just don't have the imagination to think you could possibly want anyone else. But Roy sounds very imaginative, all that poetry and those little paintings he does. And now he's going to Switzerland for the summer! Will you bring a photograph of him with you? But what am I saying, of course you will. I've made extra sure not to mention him to anyone until he has spoken ~not even Fred. Especially not Fred. Well, you must expect him to feel a certain loyalty toward his best chum. But as I say all will be well, come June at least._

_All of a sudden June is too soon! Only six tiny weeks away. You will get that book for me, won't you? Or if Priscilla Grant has something similar perhaps you might borrow a copy. If only Ruby was here. Why couldn't you have married first so that I could ask you all about it? I suppose you and Roy must know each other fairly well, hmmm? Everyone knows how these city fellows are. He sounds so romantic! And whereas I have the most eagle-eyed of mothers and everyone over the age of twenty watching over my vertue, the only person keeping an eye on you is that Jimsie person._

_Why are all the women in Kingsport named after boys I'd like to know? Well, when I have my little girl she shall be Anne. Oh, but Anne I'll have to make her first. Please come as soon as you can, I need you darling ~and I really need that book!_

_Love from Fred and yours truly,_

_Diana_

_**… … …**_

***_A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags _\- is from a poem by Wordsworth**

**Thank you for reading :o) Now I think I hear wedding bells...**


	9. Chapter XXIX

**Thank you once again for your insightful reviews. I had no idea this would happen but this chapter is not about the wedding. I decided to leave that for the final chapter because it's a final chapter kind of thing -and even then it will mostly concern the honeymoon. The entry below is from Anne before the wedding, and Gilbert after. **

**Chapter XXIX -Diana's Wedding**

**12th June, in the glimmering grasses of a golden Green Gables**

Dear Ria,

So how do you find it here in Eden? My own perfect, pellucid paradise. And how quickly my prose becomes empurpled! What would Dr Kent say? Do you know Ria, I don't even care. With one year till I am fully fledged I feel I can let my standards slip ~for the summer at least.

Oh the blowsy, billowy, blustery bliss! Did you see that Professor Deacon? Tautologous alliteration! And take note of my appearance, Dean of Women, I am not personifying decorum and restraint, neither am I dressed modestly. My feet are bare, my stockings are off, and I am at one with the ferns and grasses that tickle between my toes.

Bliss bliss _bliss!_

Oh, darling Eve! To be forced to leave your garden, to wear leaves and shame all for the sake of knowledge. Would you do it again, I wonder. If the apple were offered to you once more would you take it? Would you sink your teeth into that crisp and succulent flesh? Is it better to leave, better to live in a world of Goethe and Edison, or stay forever a child amongst Faery and Dream?

_When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man I put away my childish things._

When I was a child I had no childish things to put away. Rising at the same time, eating the same meal, wearing the same overall, taking the same seat, walking the same line, washing in the same grey water. No talking, no singing, no laughing, no looking anywhere except your boots. The same boots year after year with your toes curled tight when they got too small. Watching everyone around me curl up tight. No one to touch me, no one to hold, nothing that was mine except what I dreamed and my reflection in the window.

_Now I see through a glass, darkly: but then face to face. _

_Now I know in part: but then shall I know, even as I am known._

To be known! To stand before another without any artifice, any coverings, any shame and be _known_. Matthew was the first person to accept me. But Diana was the first person to_ love_ me. The first person I have a memory of loving me. I have those letters from Mother and Father, but paper cannot wrap its arms around me, words can't lean on my shoulder and whisper comforts in my ear.

Diana was my soft place. No surprise that I began these diaries when I was about to leave her. Now she is leaving me. I find myself on the outside again, wanting with all that I am for her to know all the happiness, the joy, the love that is rightfully hers. And yet all I can think of is what I have to lose. I know I am supposed to look for it in my very own Adam. But Adam isn't what I thought he would be, Ria. Adam throws away my friendship, Adam wants to keep me in a golden frame. Adam marries my bosom friend and takes her away to make house at The Pines, with calico dishes and doilies on the piano.

Oh Ria, now I am picturing Fred Wright wearing nothing but a fig leaf! Gilbert Blythe certainly suits his bit of green. Strange that I can't seem to picture Roy so sparely dressed. Do you know, when I think about standing in front of him waiting to be known, I spend most of my time imagining what clothes he is wearing. Not whether he will slowly slide his cape from his shoulders or fling it hotly into the room, but if it is spun from blackest obsidian or purest ivory? And the lining ~blood-red scarlet or cobalt blue? I should also mention that by the time Royal has begun the loosen the first button of his embroidered waistcoat Gilbert is standing there in nothing at all wondering why the fellow is taking so long! Oh, Ria, it isn't right to think of them so, let me conjure up my other fair suitors, Billy and Charlie.

Ooh, it _cannot_ be unseen! Let me say that it features turkey red long-johns and turkey red faces and leave it at that. What would the Dean of Women say? What would Jimsie say? What would _Marilla_ say! I blame that book. No, I didn't secret a copy of 'Guide to the Gentleman' into the Island for dear Diana ~I don't think she realised it was about how to _catch_ a man, not what to _do_ with him once he is caught. I ordered what she would call a much more _Anne-ish_ book, but just as scandalous ~in Avonlea at least. At Mount Holly it could comfortably be left out with the philodendrons and playing cards. _Leaves of Grass_ by Mr Walter Whitman.

_This then is the female form,_

_A divine nimbus exhales it from head to foot,_

_It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,_

_I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor,  
_

_Books, art, religion, time, the solid earth, and what is expected of heaven or feared of hell, are now consumed,_

_Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots, play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable,_

_Hair, bosom, hips, bends of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too are diffused,_

_Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,_

_Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn,_

_Undulating into the willing and yielding day,_

_Lost in the cleave and clasping of the sweet-fleshed day!_

The exclamation mark is mine, Ria ~though Mr Whitman has a liking for them too. Diana and I lay together in her goose-down bed for the last time and read each other excerpts all through the night. We hadn't giggled and swooned so much since Story Club days. How I want to go back to them, to the days when if a man was causing difficulty we merely killed him off. I never could best Diana's body count.

Bodies. Bodies. Bodies. I feel so alive in my body. Pulsing and perfect and pensive. So much to feel, to anticipate, to enjoy. Dr Kent is right ~I do have a habit of grouping things in threes. Three like me and Matthew and Marilla. Like me and Diana and Fred. Like me and Roy and~

There is no point in my pretending I don't want to put Gilbert's name there. I know why. It's because I cannot be on the Island and not think of him or feel his absence. This very birch tree is where we planned out our graduation. Down the road is the Hall that was once painted blue. The bridge he found me clinging to. The path where we hatched the A.V.I.S, the barrens where we put together those notes in the Observer. The gate.

Matthew accepted me first, Diana loved me first, and Gilbert. Gilbert was the first person who didn't see an orphan who needed improving, or a girl who needed adoring, but his match. No wonder I have felt so out of balance since he took himself away ~so halved. He can't have understood what that meant to me. I suppose because Gilbert Blythe has any number of equals in his life, as well as someone to adore.

Christine.

_Christine!_

When I think of all the times he told me how lovely I looked. Especially in that gown, that iris-like gown. I can't wear it now. Did you know that, Ria? Every time I go through my closet wondering which Anne goes with which dress that particular day, the words tumble out without thought: Sunshine satin, midnight silk, amber brocade, Gilbert's dress, lilac crepe... And even though I boxed away his starry card _and_ my green scarf, I still have to stare up at my ceiling every night. Reminders, absences everywhere, and he loves Christine Stuart! Violet eyed, raven haired, musical, refined, wealthy, lady-like Christine Stuart. While I am about it let me add long nosed, soft chinned, thick waisted, heavy footed and _dull, dull, dull!_ Everything about her makes a comment on what I am not, and diminishes that which I have. And yet he loves her! Or is _crazy_ about her, which in Kingsport amounts to the same thing.

'I am mad for you, Miss Shirley,' Roy tells me. 'I dwell in a nonsensical fever day after day, night after night, never wanting nor hoping for a cure.'

It sounds so passionate at the time, I flush and flutter and revel in the fact that this beautiful man finds beauty in me. Yet I can't ignore the still, small voice that wonders when I hear him tell me my 'starry eyes have burst forth tiny meteors to adorn my dear face with a constellation of freckles,' if he is attempting to find me more beautiful than I really am.

Of course, I'll always have my nose. And my figure is well enough if you are drawn to the willowy, long limbed type ~_others_ seem to have always had a secret hankering for flaring hips and a velvety bosom! My hair isn't worth mentioning ~I've spent too many hours and pages decrying my hair. And my eyes... how did Phil describe them? I have eyes that go right into you. Interesting enough, but is it beautiful? Roy is _certainly_ beautiful, but is he...

But of course he is. So generous and open of heart, I have never known such a whirl of concerts, recitals, flowers, chocolates, dinner parties. And the poetry~ have never known a man so devoted to its mystery. I wonder what he might make of this~

_The male is not less the soul, nor more,  
_

_He too is all the qualities, he is action and power,_

_The flush of the known universe is in him,_

_Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance,  
_

_The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost,  
_

_Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, _

_He brings everything to the test of himself_

I want to write this out for him right now, right at this very moment. I want to run it down in the most slippery and liberal of hands and plunge it into the postbox. No heart shaped cards, no careful penmanship. To send it off without thought or care.

Only I am afraid that I will address it to the wrong man.

**… … …**

_**June 14th Allwinds, Avonlea**_

Oh God, I love her.

I love her. I love her. I love her. Help me God, I love her.

Love her for the way she took my hand at the top of the stairs as though we had seen each other yesterday instead of months ago. Love her for the way she walked so joyfully by my side even though everyone in that room knew she thought I was unworthy of her.

So I am. What do I know about myself in the year Anne has been out of my life? How easily I gave into self pity, self hatred, and anger. How little I know of true suffering. How weak I am, how lacking in imagination.

When I stood before Anne in the days after Ruby died telling her that 'one would rather write masterpieces', never comprehending what it meant to have that hunger to send something good into the world. Until I attempted to write a meaningful piece for the paper myself, and had to watch as it was cut down and rewritten into something I didn't recognise, yet still bore my name.

Anne became theirs when she wrote that story. They welcome her back to Avonlea as though she was a beloved daughter from some rare old family. Then they look at me, at their prize buck, Gilbert Blythe, and all I feel is their disappointment.

He never comes back to the Island now. Sold his own horse, had his folks sell the orchard. That's the end of Allwinds then, the end of the Blythes. Even Anne turned her nose up. Even Anne.

I can't stand another minute of their scrutiny. But Anne withstood their gossip, their ill-will and judgment, year after year. Never giving into the smallness in herself, or the smallness of others. Defiantly truthful and always good.

I saw that asylum she lived in. Went down to fact check a story some reporter had filed. I couldn't believe what the fellow had written. It couldn't be true, not in 1886, not somewhere so wealthy and developed as Nova Scotia. It was a monstrous, rotting building and I pictured Anne the first time I saw her. So pale and thin that the biggest thing about her was her eyes. Her tiny wrists poking out of her sleeves -even after a summer being fattened up by the Cuthberts. Her ankles should have snapped like twigs, yet she could out climb any of us. And out work, and out dream. All at once here was someone who was bigger than life and better at living than any soul fortunate enough to have been born on the Island.

Now I have this chance to be a doctor, not because of what I have made of myself, but because of what my mother and father have given me. At the first sign I might fall they were ready to catch me, and all I can think of was who was there for Anne? When she had nothing but what she imagined, nothing to hold onto but dreams. No wonder she believed them so fervently. If I'd lived a life like that I would never let them go.

I can't let go. Please God, help me. I love her. I can't walk on this Island without feeling her step beside me. She is everywhere. In the trees, the Hall, the bridge. The gate. Her laugh in every stretch of water, her hair within the red of the roads. I knew the moment she agreed to take a walk to our old haunts that I was visiting them for the last time.

I chose the destination carefully; not the lake, not the apple tree, but a place for lovers. I would ask Anne to walk down Lover's Lane, and if she looked away, or blushed or made excuses then I had a reason to hold out hope -and after the day I spent by her side I began to believe I might. But if she readily assented without the smallest show of concern then there would be no doubt -and there is no doubt- she only sees me as a boy she used to know. Turns out I didn't even need to make deals with myself, her own talk told me enough. She wished we could return to the old days, when we were friends and the only thing I wanted was to be worthy of her. How did this happen? How have I passed all those years thinking only of how Anne would want me to live, yet still falling short of the man she could fall in love with?

No wonder she wants to marry Gardner. I may not like him but even I can see that the only thing he cares about is what he can give her. Showering her with every pleasure that can be imagined. I only made her laugh. I don't even do that anymore. Now I just make her sad. That look in Anne's eyes when we said goodbye. For all the joy of the wedding, and all the agony of the walk after, I can only recall the way she looked at me. To stay on the Island is to live in yesterday. I'm never going back.

**… … …**

***First two quotes are from 1 Corinthians 3:14**

***The two stanzas are from _I sing the Body Electric_ from Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass, 1855. _It's even saucier than I have quoted here, but I decided to edit it to keep the K+ Now can we lay to rest this idea that the Victorians were buttoned up prudes?**

**To Bertha, I wasn't kidding when I said anyone else who attempted Diana's wedding would only be making an attempt. Hope this idea wasn't too much of a cop out.**

**To J, if I didn't know better I would say your reviews were written by me ;o)**

**Also I wouldn't have had Anne go about barefooted if I hadn't first read BrightRiver's story. Tip o' the hat!**

**Ok, to the honeymoon we go, and as you wait for it to be written (shouldn't take more than 20 minutes) I want you to keep in mind that delicious quote from Four Weddings and a Funeral-**

**"Why is it called a honeymoon?"**

**"Because it's sweet like honey, and because it's the first time a husband sees his wife's bottom."**


	10. Chapter XXX

**This is the end! It feels strange to finish on a chapter called Mrs Skinner's Romance, but don't blame me, blame Maud! I would like to thank you for all your support. RD3 seemed such an insurmountable thing to write about, because I don't think people come to fanfiction for the angst, but to get away from it. So the fact that so many of you have been so encouraging has been a most cherished experience. I hope at least this last chapter makes you smile. This is for all you 'third button rule' fans :o)**

**With love and gratitude to L.M.M. and to my ever loyal, ever loving Anne-Girls. To quote Mr Darcy "It was all for you, you must know that."**

**Chapter XXX -Mrs Skinner's Romance**

**T (sorry, it couldn't be helped)**

**... ... ...**

**_The Pines, June 18th, 1886_**

Dear Journalette,

Does my handwriting look any different? I think my J's have got a little loopier -ooh and I clean forgot to cross my T's! Let me do that now. Hmmm, how satisfying to have that crossed.

I am sitting at our table, our very _own_ table! There's the prettiest square of sunlight shining on the maple-wood. I forgot to put my new tablecloth down, when I worked so hard on it, too. White work embroidery, two hundred hours all told. Will I ever have the stamina for such a piece again!

Though this is a very different kind of weary. And if I wanted to I could wander straight back to bed, when _before_ I'd feel so cross trying to get on and get done so that Mama wouldn't give me a lecture about staying up till all hours ~and keep _her_ up with all my mischief. But there's no one to hear me now. And no one to hear my Fred, thank goodness. What a sound he makes. Not just one sound, there's a whole farmyard inside him! Whoever would have thought such a quiet, sensible boy could make such almighty eruptions. Not that he's a _boy_ anymore...

Oh, Journalette, I am _finally_ a woman and a wife! I never knew I could feel so woozy and weak while having such stiffness and kinks all through me. Strange to say, I understand Anne more than I ever did. The way she would describe the queer little aches she sometimes got when she read a particular poem or saw a particular sunset. A thrill I could understand, a glowy sort of happiness, most certainly. But a queer little ache? Well, _now_ I know. And wouldn't I have loved to have gotten one from a walk down Lovers Lane ~no wonder she likes to linger outdoors so much.

I can hear Fred. I can hear my Frederick Jehoshaphat Wright splitting the wood in great fell swoops. Bang Bang Bang! Chop Chop Chop! He's coming through backdoor now ~he is right, we really _will_ need to add on a porch to the end of the house. He's tumbling the wood by the grate of our fire without stacking it first. Now he's looking over, oh I can feel his eyes on me. I don't even think he's going to wash off at the pump! Journalette, I believe I may have to finish this later...

**… … …**

_**The Pines, June 19th, 1886**_

Now I _do_ hurt. No more queer little aches, I really am sore _all_ over! I love the feel of my body ~I've never written that word down before. Body! Body! Body! I'm all soft and hollowy from forgetting to eat. Sometimes I feel like I'm the one who's getting eaten. And Fred just seems to get bigger and bigger... Oh, he wants to know what I'm writing. I'm about to tell my first wifely falsehood.

He's coming~

**… … …**

_**The Pines, June 22nd, 1886**_

Dear Journalette,

Sorry, I haven't written in you for a while. It's true, wives just don't have the time that spinsters do. Whatever did I _do_ before? I can't remember that girl I used to be. It's because of that I want to write in you now. I want to keep a proper account of my wedding while it's fresh in my mind. Fred is gone to the livestock sales in Grafton. He wants a good boar, maybe two or three sows to keep by that stand of oaks in the west field. You know there are more oaks here than pines. I wonder at them naming this place the way they did. It does smell piney though ~I so excited for Anne to visit. But not yet. Not yet. Not yet!

She made the dearest bridesmaid. I was worried her lacy cap sleeves would be too tight, I was sure she must have sent me the wrong measurements. She really is a tiny thing, I'd expect someone so thin to look as though they would snap. But as much as Anne loves her pine trees, she really is the willowy type. You could bend her and twist her in all directions and Anne Shirley will _never_ break.

I wasn't so confident about Gilbert. He used to have this nice layer of boyishness about his build, now he's gone all lean and spare. I got such a surprise when I saw him, and Gilbert Blythe should have been the _last_ thing on my mind as I was heading down the stairs on Papa's arm. My husband's body is so comfortable and strong. I love the way his hips dip inward and then smooth down to his long, broad thighs. There's the softest downy hair all over his legs, it's like floating your palm across a bed of wheat. He smells like the land too, I never noticed that before. An honest smell of soil and toil. It so nice to lay next to him and tease out the soft hair under his arm.

Oh dear, I was supposed to be writing of the wedding! Well, I was just sure I would faint. Thank goodness Anne talked me out of my nonsense and threatened to dunk me in the well. After spending two hours on my hair I wasn't about to have one inch if it mussed up ~though it was certainly mussed up later. And that's what I_ really_ want to write about. I'll come to the ceremony by and bye. But the night. The night. The _night!_

Well, we set off for The Pines in our brand new horse and buggy. It has smart green leather bench seat and a little awning that folds up and down. Fred was so proud of it, and the sturdy black mare in the harness. He let me have the naming of her, but I decided to give the honour to Minnie-May seeing as she is still so set on a pony of her own. Would you believe she wanted to call our horse _Gilbert?_ Of course, she had to settle for Gilbertina, and then I just told Fred we would call her Tina. Now that I think on it that was probably my _first_ wifely falsehood. How easy they are told. When I would always sniff at the way Charlotte, Myra and Nettie would sit about the sewing circle talking about their men.

Of course, I'd never tell Milton that! No need for Billy to find out how much it actually cost! Robert has no idea what I really think!

And I would stitch away, wishing I could spend that time working on my whitework than some sensible thing for the hospice in Charlottetown, thinking I will _always_ tell my Fred the absolute truth, _I_ shall never stoop so low, Fred and I _love_ each other. But now I see they have a point. There's no need for Fred to know _everything_ I'm thinking. I hardly need to know all about him either. The way he was looking over the auction brochure in bed last night, sighing over Saddlebacks and Gloucester Old Spots! Then he looked at _me_ with that same greedy look in his eye.

When we arrived at our dear little home Fred had this idea of carrying me over the thresh-hold. But I told him don't you dare! I've sat on his lap any number of times but I would always take a little weight off him and bear it myself, which got terribly uncomfortable. I think he thought I was nervous someone would see us, but really I just felt crampy.

Once we were inside we weren't quite sure what to do. He started bringing in the bags and I started making tea. The Gillis girls and Carrie Sloane came by earlier and set a few things up for us, including a decanter of red-current wine. I can't even look at the stuff, and when Fred asked if I wanted a taste I said no with more keenness than I meant, and he went redder than the wine and disappeared upstairs. So I went on making the tea ~I don't have the slightest idea why, only that I thought that's what a wife _should_ do~ and sat at our table waiting for Fred to come down again. I waited and waited and finally when the tea had stewed I went up to look for him. And there he was, Journalette, decked out in a sweet white nightshirt, lying on top of the covers _fast asleep!_ So I undressed as quickly as I could and put on my nightgown and leaped in next to him. It was only seven o'clock! The sun was still above the oak trees!

I don't know what I felt then. I suppose there was more relief than I care to admit, because for all Anne tried to soothe my worries about my wedding night with that scandilous poem of hers it didn't help one bit. It's all very well to giggle about _cleaving flesh_ and _bridegrooms_ with your bosom friend. But when you are in bed with that bridegroom and he is about to cleave your own self ~well, the thought of it scared me. My mind began turning to those awful stories that the other girls had told me. About a bride in White Sands whose husband tried to couple with her _through_ her nightgown! Another who got such a shock at the sight of her naked husband that she threw hot tea all over it and ran home to her mother! Fortunately my tea had gone quite cold, not that Fred needed cooling off, he was snoring quietly beside me with this real contented look on his face. So I just settled down next him ~how strange it felt to have something big and bulky in bed with me instead of pillows and a ragdoll~ and drifted off to sleep.

I woke up some time later and saw straight away what that tea spiller meant. Because something enormous ~really it was like another _arm~ _was poking up under Fred's nightshirt. I looked over at his face in the moonlight and he was looking right at me.

Please don't be alarmed now, Di-Di, he said, his voice was all thick and strained like that night in the barn. Happens all the time. Every morning, there it is.

How long have you been awake, darling? I asked him.

I haven't been to sleep yet, he said. Wasn't sure what you were expecting, so's I thought I'd leave it up to you.

To think we had both been lying there waiting for the _other_ person to begin something! We didn't do anything, not then. Just began talking about something and nothing until the sun came up. But in all that time there was something else that hadn't gone down even _once._

The first time we tried didn't go so well. We were shaking so much it was like trying to thread a needle in the dark. The second time was strange, I didn't feel much more than when I put my finger in my ear, and soon after Fred said he wanted to stop for a bit. When he rolled off me I remember thinking was that it all it was? Was this what all that swoony poetry and chapped lips and galloping hearts was supposed to end with? I had more satisfaction at button number _two!_

Fred must have thought the same because his long fingers went to the collar of my nightgown. I let him undo every one ~and Journalette, there were _thirty_ of them! Then he brought my hands to his nightshirt. I unbuttoned them too, only there were seven. And we rucked it up over his head just as the sun beamed through our window and the birds sounded in the treetops. He was grinning and shivering, and more up than I thought possible of a body. And then it happened. Then I _knew. Then_ I understood.

It puts me in mind of what Gilbert said when he made his speech at the wedding breakfast. He had to write it out, Journalette, can you imagine? Gilbert Blythe didn't think he was going to remember what he was going to say, after all the recitals and speeches he's made. Instead he had this little slip of paper in his hands, and even though his voice was as bright and brilliant as always, I couldn't help notice how his hands slightly trembled as he read it. It was filled with tales about him and Fred, and plenty of jokes about waiting. How Fred had the patience of Job himself for having to wait so long for me. But Gilbert didn't look at me then, he was looking over at Anne. Anne was looking straight up at him too, willing him to do well. And I remember thinking that perhaps it wasn't right for them to stare at each other like that when Anne had a beau who sent her alpine flowers all the way from Switzerland.

I want to toast you both, he said, for holding onto to each other for all those years under the steely gaze of our upright mothers and fathers. As hard as it was ~and I'm certain it was (Gilbert Blythe!) I am also certain it will seem the matter of a moment compared with the lifetime you will share together. For weeping may endure for a night, but _joy_ cometh in the morning.

**The End**

**… … …**

**While that quote is supposed to echo Anne in _A Book of Revelation_ I also meant it to remind any readers that after all the sadness Anne and Gilbert have gone through it will all be worth it. That's one of my favourite quotes "It's always worth it."**

**Thank you again for reading and all your inspirational comments. I will reply personally to everyone that I can, but to the guest reviewers-**

**Astrakelly: I liked that you worried if I minded being called a sweetie, and I like being called a sweetie.**

**Guest: Don't worry they'll be plenty for Anne Shirley to fall on her knees about soon. But I'm so happy that Gilbert's love resonated in that last chapter. To me (but I realise not to all) it wasn't until that moment that he truly loved her. I meant it as a cry from the heart (whereas before it was often a cry from further down the body)**

**J: You are a beautiful spirit. Can you just sign up so I can PM you?**

**Erika: It's comments like yours that keeps me going. It's weird being a fanfic writer, and you have to know I sometimes feel like why am I doing this? Then I get a message from someone saying I was having a bad day and you made it better, and that's all the reason I need to keep going :o)**

**Thank you again! So RD4? she asked shamelessly...**


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